Write On

  And now, let’s talk about rhubarb. More than chirping birds or tender shoots in the garden, long lines in the garden center at Home Depot or the first crack of a bat against a ball, the appearance of rhubarb in the produce aisle says Spring to me. And each stalk and recipe creates a visceral connection to my mom. To like rhubarb is to be in a special club. I have a few friends that don’t like rhubarb, but we don’t speak of it. Actually, my family doesn’t really like it and my continued love for them is a testament to my goodness. Rhubarb is the enemy of the crossword pilgrim (it’s a vegetable but it’s called the pie fruit) and to the Weight Watcher - it requires copious amounts of sugar to be palatable, although you can call on its bestie Strawberry to offset that necessity. It’s a complicated little stalk that defies a neutral stand. One swipe with a paper towel before chopping and the subsequent red lined cutting board, and I’m instantly in a lovely, safe place of memory: my mot

  At lunchtime, Becca came out of the line and scanned the bustling cafeteria.  Chris, Andi and I were at our usual table by the windows, and Ellen was there, too.  We know Ellen from fifth grade Girl Scouts, and she usually eats with us even though she isn’t part of The Glaring.   “Should we invite her to sit at our table?” I whispered. Chris forked a bite of salad.  “Who?” Even though she works full time, Chris’s mom makes these amazing salads with cheese and dried cranberries and dressing in a separate, tiny container.  I have peanut butter and jelly on wheat and a baggie of chips every single day.  I like knowing what to expect when I open my lunch bag.  “The new girl.” Andi sipped lentil soup from a Barney thermos.  Most of Andi’s possessions exist purely for irony.  “Her backpack’s cool.  I’m game.” Ellen waved so hard I thought her arm might fly off her shoulder.   Becca’s face lit up.  A tray containing a lump of gravy smothered meat and boiled potatoes came in for a landing be