Oh Rhubard, you’ll never leave me! If you do, I’ll eat you up…in a crisp.
You have made me feel hungry.
I saw the red, and hoped … ahh rhubarb, if done well. The existential horror of walking into a bakery in Scotland and having to choose between rhubarb tart and trifle. I had both. It is not eaten so much here. My theories are that it was associated with poverty, like rabbit and chokoes, the survival food of the great depression, or because everyone’s great grandmother grew it and just boiled the hell out of it, and served it wet and sloppy.
the horrors never do cease, do they?
I never tried, now I want it!
It is tart, sweet, sublime. I love it.
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