This Sunday I rode my motorcycle up to Flagstaff to visit the mountain-crawlin, world-changin dynamo known as Sibbitt. It was a pleasant ride up, very cool and breezy and I went 150 miles on only 3 1/2 gallons of fuel. Uphill.

(Perhaps this is a good time to point out that it is my subconscious goal that everyone in the world get a motorcycle.)

Once at Sibbit's hardly-on-fire house, I indulged in delightful home-cooked delight. Delightedly.

I also helped cut rhubarb that Sibbitt later made into a pie. I admit, I had my doubts about rhubarb. I've only ever had store-bought pies and haven't been thrilled by them.

Then I had this pie. The experience was transcendent. It was sweet and fresh and felt good for my heart somehow. It is now one of my favorite pies. And I am a man who loves pie. I squoze it in the tiny space above blueberry but below peach cobbler. Not bad for the humble rhubarb, the plant that I likened to mutant celery/collard green.

Now I must go get breakfast. I've written myself into a fierce hunger.