Cutting rhubarb
11 May 2025
I write a lot about rhubarb. I love the tang of this plant, the uniqueness of it. Most people don’t know about rhubarb—they see the red stalks on a farmer’s stand and they think it’s some weird celery. One of the reasons I bought my homestead is because the prior owners had a bed of established rhubarb.
This year, the weather’s been wet and my primary plant (which is divided from last year!) comes up to my chest. And this is after a hard frost nipped a third of the plant. Anyway, I’ve started to harvest, for crisps and stewing and for making bitters. I came to know and love this misunderstood deliciousness because of my mother. Since today is mother’s day, here is a poem I wrote some time ago about rhubarb.
Mother Memory Cutting rhubarb in the rain, the mottled leaves thick with mud and slugs, I wonder if these five plants, robust now, will stand another season in this shaded corner. If not, next spring my husband will surprise me, bearing rhizomes, golden gifts, then plant them so my garden will be as my mother’s, and her mother’s, and, perhaps, all our mothers’ before. Later, like my mother, I’ll slice the stalks into chunks for pie. Mine has strawberries, though she says ‘ruins the rhubarb’, so she’d make sauce and eat from the pot, still warm, spoon clanking against the sides, a sigh of a smile trespassing her face. In her eyes, my mixed fruit splendor makes me a bit of a rebel; she taught me well. But tendering these stalks, making the pie, heralds me a holder of apron strings, honoring our history unmarked with words or trophies, and therefore, all the more important. I wonder how my daughter will make her pie
Happy Mother’s Day to all who guide others to grow, to learn, to appreciate rhubarb in all its splendor. Peace…



Happy Mother’s Day and hope you made something with rhubarb