"I want a dish to taste good, rather than to have been seethed in pig's milk and served wrapped in a rhubarb leaf with grated thistle root." - Kingsley Amis
Strange to begin a blog about nurturing connections with an entry about a plant with leaves so toxic it allegedly killed a handful of vitamin-starved Londoners during WWII. Strange, in a blog about the senses and the sense in words, to choose a subject whose name is so nonsensical, theater actors needing background noise used to mutter it offstage.
Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb.
Be all that as it may, rhubarb is pretty, (slightly) poisonous, and very persuasive on the tongue, dancing a surprisingly sophisticated waltz with custard when paired in a spring pie.
My spring pie, that is. A month after my birthday getaway to a gorgeous cabin in Coos Bay, I'm still savoring how outrageously splendid it is to surround oneself with treasured friends, to pause deliberately for a good slice of life, and for a chunk of birthday pie (I recommend Sofia Piel's delicious version, and still need to beg the recipe off her. Here's a substitute in the meantime.)
As spring spins into summer, don't forget rhubarb.