The weird and wonderful world of strawberry rhubarb

Sunday, June 22, 2014

Rhubarb has been taking center stage in the house this week. First we attempted to eat it as part of our mystery food challenge. Which led to mixed results and a potential case of food poisoning. Fortunately no kids were harmed, but they did learn some important lessons, namely that rhubarb 1) isn’t to be eaten raw, and 2) is effective as a sword when battling with your siblings post-breakfast.

After a few too many instances of needing to wrestle warped rhubarb out of small, maple syrup-sticky hands, I decided that a better fate than bruising and the eventual trash bin, would be to roast it with a sprinkling of vanilla sugar alongside some fresh organic strawberries.

There is no better pairing, in my mind, than strawberries and rhubarb. The only combination that comes close is Roquefort + baguette + a sip of red wine all sloshed together in one decadent bite. I have my Stepdad and the country of France to thank for that one. I’m not sure to whom I owe my thanks for strawberry rhubarb, but I’m sure that he or she would be pleased at passionate response it’s gotten over the years.

My favorite use is strawberry rhubarb pie, but I generally leave all pie making to the pie experts. I made it once for a dinner party, and it wasn’t a hit. My crust was lackluster, and Rodney was convinced that in general, rhubarb is a weird fruit to make into dessert. “Vegetable”, I corrected him. “Exactly”, he said, reaffirming his point that dessert and vegetables shouldn’t co-exist.

I disagreed, but regardless, soggy crusts don’t have a place at my table. So I make jam.

I’ve admitted to the fact that I’m scared of making jams and other foods that are have long shelf lives, but throwing some fruit into an oven with some sugar, letting it roast in its own juices and calling it jam? That I can handle. The maximum time it spends in the fridge is a week because we eat it as soon as we make it. No pectin, no boiling of sealed jars. It’s a win win for everyone.

Roasted strawberry rhubarb has so many applications. Don’t get me started with Greek yogurt. I’ll stir it into the yogurt as is…

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Drinks

Roasted grapefruit margaritas

Monday, May 5, 2014

I was 24 when a Mexican bird pooped on my face.

How did I know the bird was Mexican? Because we were in Mexico. In all fairness, he could have been an ambitious American bird who’d flown too far south for the winter. But for the purpose of this story, I’ll assume that he was Mexican. And that he was a he because aim was a factor.

It happened during my first trip to Mexico with the man I now call my husband. We’d been on a family vacation with his parents, and had made the last-minute decision to extend our stay. Both of us were in the midst of job transitions and were lucky enough that our calendars overlapped.

Initially, our spur of the moment hotel/apartment search was a flop; nothing was available. His parents weren’t happy that poolside Margaritas had been replaced by a frantic search for a strip mall hotel or kindhearted landlord who would take us in.

Towards the end of our planned vacation, we found ourselves apartment-hunting in downtown Acapulco when a bird, possibly a Condor or a Falcon, pooped on my face.

We didn’t actually see the bird, but Rodney, combining his high school biology and college-level math skills, made some rough estimates based on the poop surface area. Thankfully it had missed my eye, but covered a broad swath of my right cheek. Although I never actually saw the wreckage, I distinctly remember the sensation. Like a mug of hot chocolate had been splashed in my face.

These discussions happened after the fact of course. Rodney’s immediate reaction was to slip into a mild shock, recover, and then attempt to clean it off. A little too quickly I might add, because instead of wiping it off my cheek sideways, he barehanded it down over the corner of my mouth. Our Cat 4 problem had now escalated to a Cat 5.

We needed water. And not your standard issue garden hose as that would have increased the likelihood of a second gastrointestinal flesh-eating disease.

The hunt began for a bodega and bottled water. It wasn’t long before we found one and in that same back alley where the Condor had made me his personal latrine, we washed our tainted bodies.