First, A Rhubarb Ruse
The first time I tasted rhubarb I was only about ten years old. My mom’s Uncle Steve had two long rows of rhubarb roots planted behind his house and they grew tall, ruby red stalks. Uncle Steve was showing my cousin and me the garden and I said something about the big red celery. Instantly he knew had a couple of victims ready to supply a good chuckle. Bending over, he chopped off a long red stalk and cut a couple of lengths for us to try. “You’ll love this. I’ll probably have to keep chasing you from the garden,” he said. His taunts made the promise of a big bite of rhubarb even sweeter.
Chomp, chomp. As our faces instantly twisted up in contortions Uncle Steve had his morning laugh on us. His wife, Julie, saw the whole show from the porch and brought out a cup of sugar to show us how rhubarb should be eaten raw. After some assurances, we dipped the ends into the sugar bowl and tried again. This time we loved the mixture of tastes.