Rhubarb

Rhubarb season always bring memories of my Grandfather. He'd pick me up from kindergarten in his red and white truck. Lady, the collie dog, would meet us in the driveway at home, at the end of a forever row of eucalyptus trees, the song of red winged black birds through the open windows. I remember it as if it were yesterday. The red winged black birds still sound the same.

Later, in junior high, when he was driving a purple jeep, and I could walk to school, he taught me to make rhubarb pie. At first he made the crust, instructed me on the filling and with each successive pie he was further from the kitchen. Until the pie came from the oven; then he was first at the table.

All these years later, lifetimes really, and he's been gone more than a decade, I've not made a rhubarb pie. I honestly don't remember how. But on Sunday I improvised a stewed pot of rhubarb, adding flavor as I went.

The rhubarb, a squeeze of lemon juice, confetti ribbons of zest. I added candied ginger because I had it. Grandpa would never have considered it. And because I don't love sugar, like he did, I sweetened the pot with wild blackberry honey. And half a basket of strawberries. He adored a good strawberry.

With a bit of water the rhubarb cooked to a sauce, the consistency of pie filling. I ate it from the pot. Until it cooled. Then I spooned it, the biggest spoon I could find, over a bowl of meyer lemon yogurt.

If Grandpa had been able to taste it, he would have been first at the table. Even with the ginger.

It seems like such an old fashioned food, unfortunately forgotten. But a guarantee that it's not commercial. I like that, that I find it, unbunched, loose, on a small farmers fold out table, priced with a paper and felt pen sign.

How about you? Do you eat rhubarb?