When I think of rhubarb season, the same scene always comes to mind: I’m nine or ten years old walking barefoot through the dewy grass with my mom out to her rhubarb patch early on a Saturday morning. She lifts back the giant leaves and cuts the perfect stems – not too green, not too pink, not too long, not too short. Each stalk is then stacked across my outstretched arms like tiny cordwood.
