The strong red stems of the rhubarb have become weak and spongy. They are weighed down by large green leaves and have begun their gentle collapse towards the earth. The stems lie as if exhausted by their summer endeavours, only the thick hard inedible stems stand upright. I tugged hard to remove the stubborn stems from the ground and threw the red spent stalks on the compost heap.
The rhubarb is no more. Summer is over.
Every Spring I hope that, despite my benevolent neglect, the ruby red bullets of rhubarb will push their persistent noses through often unpromising conditions to pursue their goal of seeking the light and deliver a bountiful crop. Earlier in the day, my grandchildren had looked puzzled at the empty space where the red stalks and dark green umbrella leaves once stood. I explained to them how after a wintery hiatus hidden underground, the rhubarb will return in spring.
In each new garden, I have always planted a crown of rhubarb, because my mother, a thrifty, redheaded Aberdonian, believed every garden should have a rhubarb patch. A rhubarb patch meant you could make economical jams and puddings for your family. She was the Queen of Rhubarb inventiveness. Rhubarb with cornflakes, anyone? Rhubarb was served stewed, with milk puddings, custard, rice, tapioca and semolina or turned into pies, crumbles and sponges. There was jam and bottled rhubarb to be used in winter. In my childhood home, it was possible to have rhubarb – in one form or another – seven days of the week. No packets of crisps or chocolate biscuits for the children of the fifties. If you wanted a snack, you might be offered a stick of rhubarb to dip in a poke of sugar.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, after a childhood of eating rhubarb, it’s not my favourite pudding. The rhubarb grown in my garden I give away to family and friends. On rare occasions, I poach the tender, young stems with ginger and brown sugar to eat with plain yoghurt. As I eat the sweet, spicy compote, I have a conversation with my long dead mother. I hope she knows that, although I remain ambivalent towards rhubarb, I continue in a small way with her traditions. I imagine her surprise at my fanciful description of this most mundane and practical garden plant as the hopeful herald of spring.
After the incessant rain of the morning, it suddenly stops, and I decide to risk a foray into my waterlogged garden. I mooch around, look in the pond, take the secateurs out of my pocket and snip off a few errant stalks and stems. With my hand, I brush aside a small pile of fallen leaves and there it is. Hope embodied in the tiny, bullet shaped, ruby red noses and lime green leaves of a rhubarb pushing through the soggy soil. I sniff, weepy at the sight. Throughout this long weary, watery, full of tears winter, I have identified with the collapsing spongy stems of the end of summer rhubarb. I was weighed down by age, bereavement, and rain. I was on a hiatus, hiding from the light, unsure if I would be able to push my way through the darkness and return.
I curse as I drag the heavy, terracotta rhubarb forcer from its hidey hole in the corner and manoeuvre it across the garden. I cover the rhubarb and plunge it once again into enforced darkness. Within a day or two, the lime green leaves begin to push the lid off the forcing pot. With a strength I thought lost, I removed the pot. In the light once more, the stems of rhubarb stand slender, pink and full of promise.
The rain returns and, on a whim, I pull the new, fresh stems from the wet earth and scurry back to the kitchen. I sense a small shift in my mood and decide to find a new rhubarb recipe to cook and eat today.
A new recipe, a new start, a new spring.