When I was young, my grandfather lived in the country near Rochester, Minnesota, and had an abundant vegetable garden. Walking down its paths in the spring, you would see what would be rows of carrots, greens, potatoes, eggplant, a trellis where the french beans would climb, and then, in the corner of the garden, a huge rhubarb plant, already lush and green. I remember pulling up a stalk of that rhubarb with all my might. Dipping it in sugar I would crunch into it and pucker my lips as its juice ran down my chin. Its taste always reminds me of this childhood happiness. I must say this is still my favorite way to eat rhubarb—there is a spontaneous joy in picking a stalk, cutting off the leaves, and eating it then and there. Yesterday afternoon, I was in the Linden Hills Coop in Minneapolis and saw one of the cashiers sitting at a table taking her break.
