ode to rhubarb

I know that I am not the only one singing the praises of rhubarb, but please, humor me. Rhubarb, along with asparagus, is one of the first types of local produce to arrive at the farmers market here in my home state of Michigan. I watch for it, waiting in anticipation as the days get warmer, and then it finally appears, heralding summertime, whispering of all that is to come.

So naturally, I wrote you a poem about how much I love rhubarb. That's a perfectly normal thing to do, right?

Roasted rhubarb, above, adapted from such recipes as those of Molly Wizenberg at Orangette and Luisa Weiss, the Wednesday Chef. Rhubarb tarts with a corn flour crust, below, from Kim Boyce's brillant Good to the Grain. This recipe can also be found online at the Smitten Kitchen.

Ode to Rhubarb

Your long stalks

Deepest red

Pink fading to green ends

They beckon me from where they rest
On the tables at the farmers market

And in an instant
I am dreaming of crisps and cobblers

Of warm, bright pockets of fruit

Encased within the crumb of a perfect scone

Or under the layer of brown sugar and butter

Topping my mother's quick bread,

Breakfast on the last days of school before summer
I am dreaming of ruby-red juices
Threatening to escape the confines
Of a small, misshapen tart

Which I will call rustic

In explanation of its imperfections

I am dreaming of filling my bright red pot

With chopped stalks
Of a matching hue,

Stirred with sugar and vanilla

And a splash of wine
(Red or white, I've yet to decide)

They will fall apart

And become, like magic,

Something I never know quite what to call

But will gladly put atop my oatmeal

And over ice cream and yogurt

And beneath soft pillows of whipped cream

I am pulled back to reality

As I hear the old man say,

Why not two pounds?

Why just one?

(I think to myself that
He is so thin
Like a stalk of rhubarb)
And standing there in front of his stall
Your beauty before me
I am easily convinced

As I leave the market,

My bag is heavy

And I open my heart

To summer