Rhubarb planted in my back yard. Since it prefers cool weather we’ll just have to see how it does. Fingers crossed.
The other day while browsing the garden section of my local Wal-Mart I was shocked to see rhubarb plants. Now maybe rhubarb is no big deal to you, but I hadn’t seen it since I left Ireland thirty-two years ago. I happen to love rhubarb preserve, with or without strawberry, preferably with ginger, and I’ve tried to find some that at least comes close to what I remember, but even direct from Ireland all I’ve gotten is a soupy mess.
My grandmother made the most delicious preserve. I’d already tried her rhubarb tart, but that was easy as I’d eat anything that looked like pie. The rhubarb and ginger preserves, on the other hand, were kinda brown, and while I liked rhubarb tart and ginger ale I wasn’t too sure about the two together. I decided to take a chance, spread a good amount of butter on a large slab of gran’s fresh-baked soda bread and topped it off with the rhubarb ginger preserve. Instant heaven.
As I was checking out, the fellow behind me says, “Oh my, rhubarb! Where did you find that?” I told him and after some chatting he asked where I was from. “Midwest, perhaps?” I hesitated just like I used to do because I wasn’t sure what to say. Libya? No. Ireland? Nuh uh. Arizona? Hmm, not really. “Anchorage, Alaska,” I told him, just as I used to tell everyone else who asked. Why? Because Anchorage was the last place in America I called home.
