Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb

Ok, ok, already! I’ll not rush into spring planting! I’ll hang on ‘til the conventional 2-4 weekend. Keep a watch on the rhubarb as long as the weather doesn’t throttle it.

Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb: In Shakespeare’s time and beyond, the muttering of the word was given to the extras on stage to represent a grumble. Easy to figure on a day like today with wet and cold everywhere, but I’ll try to resist. Come to think of it, the plant having originated in Siberia or those parts, rhubarb enjoys this kind of weather so maybe this is it? The County’s newly discovered rhubarb terroir; the next wave! Grapes move over!

In fact, the reddish, stringy stalk that we eat is rich in minerals. The stalks can also be pink or green, but my ol’ gran’ used to say that the redder the stalk, the sweeter the taste. And in rhubarb connoisseur speak, a taste that is sharp pairs well with naturally sweet things. In this case, strawberries or apples. Some say it is best to accompany fat. However, since I’m no expert, I’ll stick with my gran’ Maggie Brown’s recipe for strawberry/rhubarb sweetened with buckwheat honey. Two words of caution here. Make insect repellent out of the leaves, don’t eat ‘em cuz they’re poisonous. And please remember, rhubarb is a laxative.

I’ll share Maggie’s recipe for rhubarb compote as soon as I get around to making it again because my cooking style relies a lot on visual memory. I need to re-enact me at age 10 and standing in her kitchen as she tells me how to blend on the stove, if ya follow my drift. I’m good at imitating her Yorkshire accent even— some say not—but I generally save that part for when there’s no audience present, understand.

Maggie was born not too far from the Rhubarb Triangle in England. No guff, there is such a thing and nope, mysteries like ships and planes slipping off the radar and disappearing hasn’t happened there, as far as I can tell. But the region—a nine square mile rectangle— has a certain cachet about it.

Sorta like Feta or Stilton cheese or Champagne or Parma ham, winter-forced rhubarb produced in the Yorkshire region of England is a designated food: that is, Protected Designation of Origin (PDO) in the European Union. Ya see, back before trucks from Mexico and California, when there were fewer choices for exotic fruit in winter, rhubarb was King or Queen or some kind of royalty, whatever.

The plant would grow in the fields for two years and would be hit by frost. Sound familiar? The good news is this caused the roots to store carbohydrates. My neighbour Mike, who comes from Wakefield in Yorkshire, reminded me at Hillier Hall’s regular coffee gathering on Monday morning that at its peak in 1939, the triangle was 30 square miles. Imagine: West Yorkshire once produced two hundred tons by two hundred growers, or 90 per cent of the world’s winter- forced rhubarb.

The plants would be moved into sheds in November, kept in darkness and manure. In the warmth, the plants would grow and the carbs would transform into glucose, creating the bittersweet flavour and tenderness. Without daylight, the leaves are an anaemic green/yellow while the stalks grow to a crimson, smooth texture. Imagine a mushroom farm with pickers pulling the stalks by candlelight, as exposure to heavy light stops the growth.

In the late 19th century, early-forced rhubarb was harvested then shipped by special express train—I’ll leave you to imagine the name for it—rushed to Covent Garden market in London and then by boat to the French market in Paris, just in time to reach Christmas tables. The trade continued until Easter when, by then, the shut-in plants were exhausted and tossed. The process began again the following autumn.

I guess this last part might explain why the rhubarb thing relates to grumbling. Or why Ebbets Field in New York, home of baseball’s Brooklyn Dodgers, was historically known as the “rhubarb patch.” The team and the fans would compare themselves to rhubarb—the part about being fed horse shit and kept in the dark by umpires and how, when the game was over, they’d get tossed out. I get it now.

This piece is a classic example of what happens under the effect of rhubarb weather in the County when a writer gets spring fever and goes to the way-beyond in research. It has been known to happen before. Please forgive.

Only if you see me installing ‘The Rhubarb Trail’ signs out in places like the Roses Crossroad in North Marysburgh would it be time to start worryin’. I’ll just be tryin’ to get a jump ahead of the newest, hottest foodie bonanza.