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 mother prepping a strawberry rhubarb pie before we leave for West Beach for the afternoon. I clean, chop and measure mine before tossing it in the freezer - the promise of conjuring up spring and summer available at any time.
This year I’m going to try Smitten Kitchen’s strawberry rhubarb simple syrup and experiment with cosmos and sparkling seltzers. There will be cobblers and shortbread bars but those are meant to be shared, and I am not entertaining just yet. In the meantime, the chopping is sufficient to feed my soul, connect with my sweet mom, and guarantee a taste of spring to come.

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