“Was there a recipe?”

“Yes.”

“Did you follow it?”

“Of course. Verbatim.”

Bob braved his way through another forkful of “garlic chicken” and shook his head.

My heart sank. Drat. I had screwed up another meal. But when I replayed the episode in my head, I knew I had stuck to that recipe like a first-time teacher with a lesson plan.

“I taste no garlic,” my husband stated judge-like.

This was irritating. There were five cloves of garlic stuffed in that chicken’s innards—rather, in the space where the innards used to be. I had shoved them in there myself while confirming with the cookbook that it should be that many.

We ate in silence after that point. As we were cleaning up in the kitchen, Bob asked me to show him how I prepped the garlic.

Prepped? I told him I took them out of the fridge and crammed them in the bird. To emphasize the point, I tossed a couple of the cloves on the counter, then threw my hands in the air in resignation. It’s not on me that the chicken didn’t understand the assignment and didn’t do whatever it is chickens are supposed to do with garlic in their nether regions.

“You put them in like this?” Bob held up a clove, looking like a flower petal with its paper covering.

I confirmed yes. The smile that came over his face was equal parts understanding and surprise.

“Babe, these are still sealed. You won’t get flavor from them until you peel them and then probably smash them open.”

Ohhhhh…

He kissed me and tried to convince me that the meal was still good, but I was aggravated and stewed on my failure long after lights out. That’s when I hatched the plan. My husband suffers from a deplorable lack of a sweet tooth. He will have a thin slice of cake at a birthday party or suffer through one of my complicated desserts on Christmas Eve, but his idea of the way to end a meal is a blast of savory. Like peanuts. Or chicken wings. It really is un-American, and I should report him to somebody, but such is the way he is built.

The exception to this dessert aversion is strawberry rhubarb pie.

His grandmother and mother were excellent cooks, very in tune with the natural world, and could put on a spread with whatever produce was in its season. His grandma, especially, could whip up a dinner out of “anything that walked across the yard,” as he once told me. Summer was the time for strawberries and rhubarb from the garden. That had to be easier than garlic, right? The next Saturday, I made my way to the farmer’s market and proudly announced my intention to the owner. She waved a casual hand at a pile of the ingredients and told me to have at it.

I know strawberries. I understand how to process them into a recipe. A strawberry makes sense to me. When I got to the bin of rhubarb, my confidence evaporated. Big stalks awash with the vintage preppie color combo of green and pink. Big leaves. I have no idea what to look for to ensure I am getting fresh rhubarb. Trying to appear less ignorant, I squeezed the stalk and smelled the leaves and used my contemplative expression to convey my bogus expertise.

Got the stuff home and stared at it for a while. I knew I was supposed to chop it somehow, but vertically or horizontally? Little pieces or hefty chunks? And the leaves…do I dice those and throw them in the pie shell? After straining my brain, I resorted to my two favorite kitchen tools—my laptop and a glass of wine.

“Rhubarb leaves are poisonous to both humans and animals. They contain high levels of oxalic acid, which can cause various health problems. The stalks, however, are safe to eat.”

Sweet Molly in the Manger! I was going to sprinkle those toxic petals into the pie! Thanks, Google, for stopping me from killing my husband, which, I believe, would have really dampened his appreciation of the pie. As is, I was wondering if sniffing the leaves had damaged my brain, which would be the best explanation ever for some of my behavior.

I went back for a second deployment of the glass of wine application. Then I grabbed a knife and began whacking at the rhubarb with a confidence I didn’t really feel. When I stopped, the pie shell was heaped to the brim with the red nuggets. I tossed a few strawberries in and slapped the top crust over the mounded hill. I had to stretch it to enclose the mass.

After dinner that night, I lugged the pie to the table. It weighed as much as a small toddler, and the contents were leaking out any path to freedom they could find. I didn’t so much set it before Bob as I plopped it down like a sack of wet laundry. He was trying to look encouraging, but the skepticism was visible.

As I had no desire to try it myself, I will never truly know what it tasted like. My husband swore it was totally delish and ate two pieces to bolster my flagging ego.

God love that man.

I returned to the kitchen where it was apparent that I had used most of the pots and pans we owned. The crimson stain of rhubarb was everywhere, and it looked like I had resorted to the knife to dispatch my husband when the poison leaves missed their mark.

It was my one and only attempt at his favorite dessert. Rhubarb never darkened our door again.

Bob didn’t seem disappointed.