July 17, 2019. Western Head, Nova Scotia. Rhubarb.

For breakfast this morning I ate a bowl of stewed rhubarb, prepared by Isabel Sutherland when they visited the first week in July. Anna helped supervise but Isabel did it all by herself, from harvesting, to washing, to cutting it up and finally cooking with a little bit of water. Then she added sugar but not much which is good. Every morning I dole out a small bowl with my breakfast. It is delicious with just the right amount of tartness. Here in Nova Scotia we have only a small patch of rhubarb. Our stewed rhubarb comes and goes quickly. In Parry Sound, Ken's Mother kept a large batch of rhubarb. Her fridge always had stewed rhubarb ready to eat. In addition she baked rhubarb pies and tarts along with rhubarb jams and jellies. During strawberry season she baked strawberry/rhubarb pie, which is still my favorite. Where ever we lived in Canada, my mother made sure she grew rhubarb, perhaps because she knew I loved it. Ken tried to grow rhubarb in the DC area but it was not very successful. Once a year we could eat rhubarb. Ken was known to eat the stalks raw but not me. It is too sour for me. Once upon a time when I was 17, I was late getting home. Everyone else was asleep so I was trying to be quiet. Going up the stairs I was carrying my shoes. In my other hand I was carrying a book with a bowl of stewed rhubarb perched on top of the book. In my bedroom, I tried to flip the switch to turn on the light with the book, , which worked but it also tipped the bowl of rhubarb on top on the chair. What a mess. I quickly changed and went to bed and left the rhubarb which had landed on my clothes for the next morning. Every time I eat a bowl of stewed rhubarb I recall the instant that stupid bowl tipped onto the chair, which held my clothes I had just taken off before leaving for the evening. After that, I always ate my late night bowl of rhubarb in the kitchen. Lesson learned. But I still love to eat stewed rhubarb.