There was a large, dark rhubarb plant lurking in the back yard of my house when I was growing up. It grew hugely each spring. It was in the lower yard, tucked in a corner near the barn and a couple of rotting, homemade cold frames. Some neglected antique roses wended their way lazily up a nearby trellis, which was most likely covered in lead-based paint. It was an area of the yard relegated to small children, where we would not jump off the stone wall into the fastidiously weeded herbaceous borders, or trample the Jack in the Pulpit, or swing from the lilacs. In that corner we could dig and play. It was the next to the compost pile, and near my sandbox, where I tried unsuccessfully, sadly, to tunnel to China.
We were allowed to pick the flowers down there – the wild flowers that appeared as if spontaneously generated, though, nothing that had been deliberately cultivated. Our daisy and buttercup chains were never long enough to make crowns, though. We dissected the acorns that fell from the neighbor’s oak tree that towered over our hedge, to make fake fingernails, doll teacups and also projectiles to hurl at my brother. Nature’s bounty was generous indeed.
Like small children in an Edward Gorey cautionary tale, we had been instructed early on to know what poison ivy and poison sumac looked like, so we never touched the leaves of three, or the more insidious beard-like vines that snaked up trees or the tempting velvety-looking red sumac. And we were lectured, often, that we shouldn’t eat anything we encountered in the woods. An exception was made for berries. We went berry picking at our old house on Strawberry Hill, and could strip a raspberry bush in an afternoon, and even bring some home. Foraging was not yet fashionable.
And yet, we were allowed to pick rhubarb and tempt our fates. The dangerous knowledge that the leaves were poisonous gave us such a thrill. We loved to think we were doing something reckless as we nibbled our way up the rhubarb stalks, inching closer to the leaves. That frisson of courting death was heady. My mother never realized that we snuck small Pyrex bowls of sugar down to the lower yard, and that many a summer afternoon was spent sticking stringy rhubarb stems into the bowl, while we ruminated about the depth of the China tunnel, and milked dandelions and generally were kid-like, enjoying the long summer months.
I suppose there still could be a rhubarb plant down there by the barn, though after this winter I would be surprised. And now I might consider foraging for some to bake into a pie with strawberries, or into some muffins, although I think I would prefer the cocktail below, myself.
Now in season, the rhubarb is a perennial vegetable, which originated in China. It wound its way to Russia, then ambled to England and then hopped a ship for the States just before the Revolutionary War. My favorite story about rhubarb, or the pieplant, comes from my all time, much loved literary character, Laura Ingalls Wilder. As a very young bride in the 1880s, she needed to make a lunch for some hired hands, and everything went disastrously. First she didn’t soak beans long enough, so they were rock hard, and when she served her pies: “There was a pieplant in the garden; she must make a couple of pies… And when it came to the pie – Mr. Perry, a neighbor of Laura’s parents, tasted his first. Then he lifted the top crust, and reaching for the sugar bowl, spread sugar thickly over his piece of pie. ‘That is the way I like it,’ he said. ‘If there is no sugar in the pie, then every fellow can sweeten his own as much as he likes without hurting the cook’s feelings.’”
-Laura Ingalls Wilder, The First Four Years*
It took me a long time to puzzle out that it wasn’t a magical pie plant in her garden, á la Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. It was rhubarb that almost ruined Laura’s day. Luckily, she had the gracious Mr. Perry. Laura would have liked one of these icy cocktails I bet!
Rhubarb and Strawberry Ice
1 cup sugar
4 cups water
4 cups rhubarb cut into 1-inch pieces
1/2 cup raspberry-flavored vodka
2 tablespoons lime juice
Mint leaves and strawberries, for garnish
• Combine the sugar and water in a 3-quart saucepan and bring it to a boil. Add the rhubarb. Return to a boil, then reduce the heat and simmer until the rhubarb is soft and falling apart, about 5 minutes. Cool to room temperature then refrigerate overnight.
• Strain the pulp and discard it. Combine the rhubarb syrup with the vodka and lime juice.
• Freeze the mixture in an ice cream maker according to the manufacturer’s directions. Cover and freeze until ready to serve. Spoon the ice into the glasses and garnish each with some mint leaves and a few strawberries which are about to be locally abundant! Yumsters!
https://www.organicgardening.com/learn-and-grow/rhubarb
https://www.rhubarbinfo.com/history
https://pickyourown.org/MDeast.htm
*Text copyright © 1971 by Roger Lea MacBride
The Gashlycrumb Tinies
By Edward Gorey
“A is for Amy who fell down the stairs.
B is for Basil assaulted by bears.
C is for Clair who wasted away.
D is for Desmond thrown out of the sleigh…”
Nancy Taylor Robson says
This is a lovely piece, Jean. I’m going to try your recipe, wh I’ve not seen before. I make rhubarb crumble, rhubarb and strawberry pie, and rhubarb chutney. Rhubarb also freezes well. In fact, that’s one of our chores for today: yank a bunch of rhubarb stalks, bring them in, wash, slice about 1/4 to 1/2 inch thick and shove into a freezer bag. That’s it. To use it, I take it out and plop it into a pot still frozen, throw in some sugar and cook gently until it’s soft and the sugar is dissolved. If you’re making a rhubarb strawberry pie, then throw in the strawberries when you take it off the heat, add a little orange rind if you like, put it into a pie shell, top with streusel and bob’s your uncle. Vanilla ice cream or cream on top makes is really special.