ON an autumn night with the pink and white moon overhead, sitting outside listening to jazz piano and drinking Honduran coffee with a slice of freshly pulled-from-the-oven rhubarb crisp.
Rhubarb picked from the soil for the first crop of the season. It is the first time I have tasted rhubarb that is only two hours old.. two hours from being snapped from its
tightly wound center..and so, when I add the sugar and the lemon and apple juice, then bake, it immediately tenderizes and becomes a texture I can only describe as gooey, thick, piquant, not at all stringy...kind of like the texture of baked eggplant. The oats on top and the butter and the cinnamon have just enough richness to offset the tart/sweet of the rhubarb.. the perfect mix in a fruit. Oh my, I better stop.
tightly wound center..and so, when I add the sugar and the lemon and apple juice, then bake, it immediately tenderizes and becomes a texture I can only describe as gooey, thick, piquant, not at all stringy...kind of like the texture of baked eggplant. The oats on top and the butter and the cinnamon have just enough richness to offset the tart/sweet of the rhubarb.. the perfect mix in a fruit. Oh my, I better stop.
When will the next crop come around again? Those dinosaur leaves and their long thick magenta stalks.. I must wait. I will wait.. I will wait.
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