Every pie tells a story, and for me, the story of my first strawberry rhubarb pie is one I’ll never forget. It’s more than just a recipe, it’s a memory of learning side-by-side with my mom, who made the best pies I’ve ever tasted. This is a little slice of that story, shared from my heart to yours.
Keep scrolling for my classic strawberry rhubarb pie recipe at the end—because sometimes, the sweetest traditions are the ones we pass on.
The First Slice
There’s something about the first rhubarb of the season that stirs up a quiet kind of excitement. At least it did in our house. It meant winter was gone for good and pie season had officially begun. And not just any pie its, Mom’s strawberry rhubarb pie.
Mom made all kinds of pies; apple, cherry, peach, but there was something special about the strawberry rhubarb. The balance of tart and sweet, the ruby red filling bubbling over just slightly at the edges, the way it made the house smell like summer had arrived early. I used to think it was magic, how she’d roll out the dough, slice the fruit, and somehow know exactly when it was done, no timer needed.
The first time I made that pie with her, I must have been around ten. Old enough to handle a knife with supervision, but still too short to reach the counter without a chair. I pulled one over and stood beside her, apron too big, face already smudged with flour.
“Wash your hands first,” she said, pointing with her chin while her hands stayed deep in the dough.
That was how she taught, no formal instructions, no printed recipes. Just a series of nudges and gestures. Grab the sugar, she’d say, or feel this dough, too sticky, right? Add a bit more flour. It wasn’t so much a lesson as a conversation, the kind that moved more by instinct than plan.
She handed me the rhubarb, freshly rinsed and still damp, and showed me how to trim the ends. “Cut it like celery, she said, but thinner, like this.” Her hands worked quickly, efficiently, as mine fumbled beside hers. The strawberries came next, hulled and halved, their sweet scent filling the air.
Now toss them with the sugar and cornstarch, she said, handing me the bowl. Give it a good stir, not gentle. They need to get coated, not coddled.
There was always something matter-of-fact about how Mom cooked. No fuss, no frills. She didn’t bake to impress, she baked to feed, to comfort, to share. That was what the pie was about. Not just dessert, but a signal that everything was alright, or at least going to be.
As the fruit sat macerating, we turned to the crust. I had watched her cut butter into flour dozens of times, but that day I got to do it myself. I used the pastry cutter the way she showed me, trying to get that crumbly, pebbly texture that meant it was just right. She hovered but didn’t interfere. “You’ve got it,” she said when I paused, unsure. “trust your hands.” That stuck with me.
We rolled out the dough together, hers perfectly round, mine more like a vague oval. “It’ll taste the same,” she said with a wink, laying her crust in the pie dish with practiced ease.
Once we poured in the fruit, she showed me how to lattice the top. “Over and under,” she said, placing the strips of dough in a crisscross pattern. I remember how proud I felt laying that last strip down, as if I’d built something real.
The wait was the hardest part. The scent of strawberries and rhubarb and flaky, buttery crust filled the whole house. I sat at the kitchen table, watching the pie through the oven window like it was a fireworks show. And when it came out, golden and bubbling, I swear it was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen.
We let it cool, barely, and then she cut two slices, the filling still a little loose, the crust still warm. We sat at the kitchen table, plates in hand, and took that first bite together.
It was tangy, sweet, buttery, and just a little messy. Perfect. She didn’t say much; she never did, but I could tell by the little smile tugging at her lips that she was proud. Mom had a way of showing her approval with her pies by how her lips pursed after the first bite, LOL, I do the same thing!
That was the first pie I ever made, but not the last. I’ve made that same strawberry rhubarb pie dozens of times since, sometimes scaled down for two and sometimes the full recipe for sharing.
Now, every spring, when rhubarb shows up at the market, I think of her. I buy a few stalks and a pint of strawberries and head to the kitchen. I still hear her voice, “cut this, stir that, don’t be afraid of the dough”. And every time I take that first bite, it’s like I’m ten years old again, standing on a chair next to her, learning not just how to make a pie, but how to be in the kitchen with confidence, with love, and with enough sugar to make it sparkle.
I hope you enjoyed my story and you will enjoy this strawberry rhubarb pie recipe.
