Rhubarb

 

Horticulturally  speaking, we are a Zone 4 in the upper Midwest. That is code speak for the fact that we have a limited number of plants that are able to survive and thrive in our unforgiving climate. Our neighbors to the south enjoy an abundance of flowers, fruits and vegetables that have little chance of making a go of it in our backyards. But, all is not lost. We have rhubarb. It is the one plant that scoffs at the warm, coddling climate of the lower latitudes.

I like rhubarb for many reasons. It is the vernal harbinger of spring. Its stalks can be seen pushing their way through ground that is still saturated with the melting remnants of the last snowfall. It gives us an early opportunity to eat something that doesn’t come from a bag or can. It tastes like spring.

Most of all, rhubarb reminds me of Midwestern folks. Our weather is not for the faint of heart. The summers are hot and windy. The fall is filled with wild temperature swings and relentless wind. The winters are brutally cold and prone to gusty storms and icy outbreaks. The spring is cold, rainy, warm, blustery, hot and highly unpredictable. Rhubarb is a plant with sturdy stalks and it is not easily cracked by the harshness of its environment. Midwesterners also tend to be sturdy. We put one foot in front of the other and do what has to be done, wind or no wind, hot or cold, trendy or old fashioned.

Rhubarb needs to be handled with care due to their toxic leaves. The stalks are where the nutrition and goodness are stored. Midwesterners also need to be handled appropriately. For the most part, we are easy to get along with and are eager to help out those around us. We do not, however, like to be pushed or prodded into becoming more sophisticated or trendy. We like who we are and we get a little toxic if we are expected to be something we are not.

Rhubarb plants are shared through the generations. It’s not unusual to find a plant with a history of descendants making pies and cakes for many years throughout the region. Midwesterners are equally proud of their ancestry and eager to raise new generations of hardy individuals. We have a stubbornness that doesn’t allow us to quit.

The leaves of the rhubarb plant are flamboyantly functional. They are efficient solar panels, collecting the sun’s energy for a photosynthetic conversion into food. If a Midwesterner is sporting any pretentiousness, you can be sure that there is a utilitarian reason. Large, down-filled coats are shields against piercing winds. Over sized sweatshirts keep the cold and bugs at bay. Sturdy boots slosh through the goo of seasonal precipitation.

Finally, rhubarb plants are best when served with a little sugar. Okay, a LOT of sugar. Midwesterners sometimes need a little sweetener to make them a bit more palatable.  After all, the cold darkness of winter and the unyielding winds of the latest weather front pushing through the prairie can take its toll on frivolous behavior.  We are not naturally giddy people. But, put a piece of freshly baked rhubarb pie in front of us and look out world.

Spring Rhubarb Pie

This is the recipe I use for the first rhubarb cutting of the season because it only uses 1 ½ c. of rhubarb.

Pie Crust:

Put the following ingredients into a pie plate

1 ½ c. flour

1 ½ tsp. sugar

½ tsp. salt

Mix 3 Tbs. milk in ½ c. vegetable oil. Pour over flour mixture and mix well. Pat crust into pie plate.

Filling:

1 egg (beaten)

1 Tbs. flour

1 c. sugar

1 ½ c. cubed rhubarb

2 Tbs. melted butter 

Mix together and pour into pie shell. Bake in 400 degree oven for 15 minutes. Then bake for 25 minutes and 325 degrees. Delicious served with ice cream.

Baseball

I am a self professed sports moron. I have not a modicum of knowledge about anything related to the world of teams, stats, trading and months of madness. I attribute this to three reasons. First of all, I didn’t grow up in a family fueled by sports. Work seemed to be a higher priority than sports so that took care of any fanaticism. Secondly, sports were not widely available to girls during my youth (and for that I am forever grateful). Perhaps the most pertinent reason, however, is that I stink at athletic competition. Sure, I was a basketball cheerleader in high school, but that had nothing to do with gymnastic skills. I could yell and I wasn’t afraid of crowds so I was qualified enough for the job at my small school.

That being said, I have a confession to make. I am starting to getting interested in baseball. In defense of myself, it has a lot to do with self preservation. You see, my husband is a big Twins fan (and yes, I know that takes a little faith right now). When baseball season is in full swing, all televisions, radios, newspapers and conversations are dialed into the latest Twins game. I either learn to tolerate the sport or prepare myself for a long, lonely summer. I’ve chosen to check out the hoopla and dip my toe into the pool of sports.

Here are a few things that still confuse me about the game.

1) RBI, HR, ERA, HELP—I have no idea what the acronyms of baseball mean. My husband tries to patiently explain some of the details to me, but I soon find my brain swimming in information overload. I think all I really need to know is the color of the uniform that I am supposed to be rooting for in each game.

2) Scratching, tugging and gesturing—I don’t know if the crotch grabbing is for anatomical reasons or if it’s a secret code. I think some of the intricate sign language gestures are for more than swatting flies, but I certainly am clueless as to their meaning. I’m in favor of subtitles for those of us who don’t speak the lingo.

3) Spitting—Years of working with school children makes me cringe whenever I see unbridled spitting. I’m sure all the chewing and spitting calms the nerves of the players, but I feel like I’m watching a herd of llamas.

Here are a few things that I like about the game.

1) Scoring—In baseball you get one point if you cross home plate. It doesn’t matter whether you started at home plate or any other base. This is in contrast to the scoring confusion in other sports where the point values are based on the intricacies of each game.

2) The number three—It is the magic number in baseball. Three strikes and you’re out. Three outs per team, per inning. Three times three gives you the number of innings in a game. Three bases around before home plate. Good enough math for me.

3) The song—I don’t know of many sports that can boast a theme song. Folks seem to love to swoon and sway as they warble away about ballparks and Cracker Jacks. It’s a sweet sight to behold.

Well, the season has just begun for baseball and I’m settling in for another round of the highs and lows of following a team. Don’t tell my husband, but I’m hoping the Twins don’t improve too much this season or we’ll be looking at an overtime season, or extra innings, or whatever you call it when a team is good.

Gardening

We’ve had an unseasonably warm winter and springtime for our part of the Midwest. As Garrison Keillor puts it, “It’s been like climbing a mountain using a chairlift. It’s just not right.” Nevertheless, we are now surrounded by greenery that usually is not present until the middle of May. A hard frost hit us this week so a few flora species might be knocked back for awhile but the landscape is still looking quite verdant.

We have a beautiful garden every year, as well as gorgeous potted plants that greet me each morning with all their finery. I say “we” like I actually have anything to do with such horticulture greatness. The truth is that I am a nemesis to anything green and growing. My husband, however, comes from a long line of fabulous gardeners who can breathe life into the saddest of plants. It is thanks to him that I am blessed with vegetables, herbs and a plethora of leafy beauties.

My lack of enthusiasm for gardening was probably cultivated during my youth. Our large family had a very large garden, long before sustainable farming was fashionable. We weren’t gardening to be politically correct. We just needed more food to feed the family. We also had many hands to help tend the garden.

We grew tomatoes, beans, zucchini, summer squash, peas, cucumbers, tomatoes, Swiss chard, lettuce, radishes and whatever else we could reasonably order from the Gurney’s seed catalog. We had a large plot surrounded by a fence that kept the tender plants safe from country critters, cats, and an occasional wayward cow. It was located by the little chicken coop so we could peek in on the little baby chicks on our way to spring planting.

My least favorite task in the garden was picking beans. Oh how I dreaded the time when the blossoms started sprouting and my life would be consumed with picking, cleaning and canning hundreds and hundreds and yes, it felt like millions of beans. Ashamedly, I must admit that one summer I sang a little mantra as I picked the beans, “Pick a bean, pull a plant, fewer beans for next time.” I’m pretty sure one of my siblings squealed on me so I don’t think I maimed too much vegetation in the process.

One year my mother purchased a French bean slicer. As with all new gadgets there was a certain excitement generated from inserting a bean into the little hopper and watching a diagonally sliced bean emerge. This fun lasted for about three beans. French beaning was quickly added to my list of jobs that I worked hard to avoid. Our mother was very smart so my attempts at evading work were usually a wasted effort on my part.

Despite my lack of enthusiasm for gardening, I have never lost my love of garden vegetables. There is just nothing like picking a fresh, juicy garden tomato or cutting a handful of savory herbs. I like to cook so it is a blessing to have such goodness a few feet away from my kitchen. We pretty much gorge ourselves on whatever is popping out of the ground for the summer months, taking advantage of the break from frozen peas and corn.

And, yes, I think “we” might even plant a few green beans this year.

Date Night

 

Don’t worry. I’m not going to describe how my husband and I have carved out a night each week for dreamy, gaze into your eyes, romantic rendezvousing. Not happening at our house. We’re lucky if we can stay alert long enough to make it through our evening meal without drifting off into our mashed potatoes, much less muster up the energy to take a shower and head out the door for a night out on the town.

My impetus for this posting is a brief encounter with two strangers last week Friday evening. I was on my way back to the grocery store for the second time in an hour due to my lapse in memory the first time. As I was leaving the store, a middle-aged couple passed by me, hand in hand and all cuddly like as they entered the store. A strong perfumey fragrance wafted over me, indicating that they had taken some time to prepare for the evening. Their clothes were wrinkle and stain free. All indications pointed toward a date night for this pair.

As I slugged home with my bags of groceries, my memory bank pulled up a dusty file from the early 1970’s. My husband and I were young and all googly-eyed back then. We grew up in the same town, went to the same church, attended the same school and hung out with the same friends. Despite all this togetherness, we still thought we might make a good couple.

Dating back then was quite different than it is today. We didn’t have smart phones so we couldn’t text little love quips to one another all day long. We didn’t have facebook pages that declared our relationship status for all the world to rejoice in.   Our small town did not have a lot of entertainment options so amusement had to involve some creativity.

A favorite date night back then was double dating with some friends of ours and making a road trip to a pizza eatery about an hour away. Pizza was a luxury for us because we didn’t have any such options in our hometown. Ordering a loaded, thick crust Italian pie with friends seemed like the perfect way to spend an evening.  

Another date night option was participating in the time honored tradition of cruising the loop around town. The loop was always the same. Down main street, around the boulevard, u-turn at the north end of the street and start all over again. Around and around and around the same mile for more hours than I care to count. Makes me want to pop a Dramamine just thinking about it. Somehow we passed the time with conversation, driving and quiet swooning.

The ultimate date, however, was a movie night. Again, we usually had to head down the road for any kind of picture show. One summertime favorite was probably the drive-in theater about forty minutes away. It was out in a pseudo-pasture where the air was thick with bugs and humidity. Our movie speaker crackled out the dialogue of the movie with intermittent clarity. Sitting on your car hood was sometimes the only way to get a good view and catch a breeze or two. Despite the inconveniences, a good time was usually had by all.

Okay, I’ll admit it, I was a little jealous of the doting couple heading into the grocery store last Friday night. I don’t think, however, that my husband I will ever find ourselves cooing to one another in the aisles of our local grocery store. Our thirty plus years of marriage can probably be attributed to an accumulation of the little and big stuff. Whether it’s a trip to a favorite destination or a meal of chicken and mashed potatoes, the key is sharing space and conversations.  And it maybe wouldn’t hurt to add a little butter to those potatoes.