Rhubarb, Forced
Landrace in Bath understands that there is wonder in produce. That the best, simply used elicits quiet, mind whirring satisfaction when eaten.
And that every day baked goods are no longer ordinary, instead, to be eaten exercises in joy.
I will never forget the first time I went, nor the second, but the third, about a month in, I ate one of those ‘things’ designed to stalk and haunt nightmares for fear of missing out and become an object of fantasy. A blood orange triumph, that I feel duty bound to myself to leave at that.
Then, March 2020, lockdown’s turned to pivot’s and a quiet sanctuary to the baked, where you sat, under white washed ceilings, sipped coffee and smiled with each bite, became an emporium for locals, a haven of perfect seasonal raw ingredients and those baked wonders.
So recently, when picking up a loaf and some other baked bits, I snaffled this. Rhubarb, forced. Forced, Yorkshire rhubarb.
Perhaps a tease.
A Summer taunt.
Or, a reminder on a grey Winter, Spring soon morning, that sunshine, brightness and sweet comes again shortly.
Rhubarb is the most deceptive thing, promising so much, offering often little.
But, if you can find the good stuff and especially the good forced stuff, and that window is short, perfection can be found.
Yorkshire, candlelit grown and triangle farmed by generations that know, Rhubarb at it’s best is heaven itself.
Couple of bunches chopped, and slowly stewed with village honey and some water, it soon merges leaving a deep, glossy electric pink. Once cooled, jar one half and freeze the other.
The taste? Life affirmingly sour, that tart edge cuts through, with a hint of sweet, whether cascading down peaks into pools of whipped Greek yoghurt, where it soon turns from River Cafe pink to the colour of my well loved and washed McCoys Ball Park sweat.
Or, added to juices, maybe you baked for a crumble, perhaps used to make clean flavours sing; burrata & rhubarb, or cut through richness; say with pork and lamb.
Sometimes to be eaten alone in early morning post exercise silence, sometimes shared with others, often stolen by visitors.
So this morning as shrugging on your coat, lacing boots and staring skyward, thinking the light has changed, it may be grey but spring feels near, close your eyes and remember that first, juice filled, perfect sour bite.
