MISQUAH — There is too much rhubarb. There is, every June, too much rhubarb, and every June I am asked what to do about it, and every June I give the same answer: cake, then sauce, then give the rest away before it gives itself away, which it will.

It is also, this year, the first June without Gladys Sorensen, who grew the best of it and knew it, and whose patch by the alley behind Third Street is bearing anyway, extravagantly, the way rhubarb does — it never asked our permission to grow and does not require our grief to continue. Marlys Tollefson has been cutting from it for the Ladies’ Aid, with the family’s blessing, and if you get a piece of rhubarb cake in a church basement this month, there is a fair chance you have Gladys to thank one last time. She would want the recipe passed along. So: cake.

Half the town has a patch, and the patches do not care that nobody planted them on purpose. Rhubarb is the one crop in this county that succeeds no matter what the weather does, which is why nobody respects it and everybody has it. So. Cake.

You will need, for a rhubarb cake that will end any argument: a cup and a half of brown sugar, half a cup of softened butter, an egg, a cup of buttermilk (or a cup of milk with a spoon of vinegar, which is the same thing and you know it), two cups of flour, a teaspoon each of baking soda and salt, and two cups of rhubarb, chopped small, from the patch you didn’t plant.

Cream the butter and sugar, beat in the egg, then add the dry things and the buttermilk in turns, gently. Fold in the rhubarb. Spread it in a nine-by-thirteen, scatter the top with a little sugar and cinnamon, and bake at 350 until it springs back, about forty minutes.

Sauce is even easier: rhubarb, sugar, a splash of water, simmer until it gives up. Put it on ice cream, on toast, on a Sunday. And whatever you cannot use, set in a bag by the road with a sign that says FREE, the way the Lord and the climate intended. It will be gone by supper. It is always gone by supper. Coffee’s on Thursday.