"Rhubarb was one of my father's favorite pies. Clean saucers were produced for the pie, and as the knife slide through the tender crust and loosed the juice which ran like liquid rose quartz, our lips involuntarily moistened with the dew of expectancy and our eyes narrowed to the charm of color and form. For, after all, what more pleasurable shape or pattern can meet the eye than that of a generous wedge of luscious, ambrosial pie?"

Della Lutes, The Country Kitchen (Little, Brown, 1938)