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Sweet or savory?

Rhubarb offers endless possibilities in springtime

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Rhubarb and kale are featured in this confetti salad. (Photo by Tom Wallace/Minneapolis Star Tribune/MCT)

(MCT) — I should have known better. My cousin’s seemingly casual invitation was too intent on success, the gleam in her eye a bit too bright. “Take a bite,” she said, holding out the stalk of rhubarb.

She spoke as if she were postponing her own pleasure, as if her bite of the scarlet stalk could wait if it meant her own dear young cousin could be happy. The rhubarb looked tasty. The pale green stalk looked like celery, but better, with brilliant red striations that caught the sunlight. The bottom knob of the stalk, where it had been pulled from the plant with a firm tug, appeared as polished as marble.

This knob was pink, as pink as the hollyhocks against my Grandma Torkelson’s house. It was a shade of pink that, yet today, makes me smile. But it was the other end, where the great leaf had been lopped off by my beguiling cousin, that revealed the stalk’s pale green interior. “Take a bite,” she said again.

I suspect that we were not unobserved — that the grownups were looking out from the kitchen at the ancient drama being enacted. For surely, generation upon generation has tempted its younger members with the suggestion that biting into a stalk of rhubarb is a delight. I mean, my cousin wasn’t that original.

Nor was I when, in later summers, I would extend a stalk of rhubarb toward some unsuspecting cousin, friend, neighbor kid — whoever had not experienced the stop-action surprise of a bite.

To a child’s fairly untested taste buds, rhubarb is a shock. The initial crunch is quickly replaced by the sensation of every pore in your mouth constricting in the face not so much of a taste that is sour — although your brain is screaming “Sour!” — as in the realization that spitting out the rhubarb risks releasing even more of its barbarity and that, while ridding yourself of this morsel now is more important than anything you’ve ever done, the specter of tasting more rhubarb, even on its way out, is akin to realizing that someone’s nails are only halfway down the blackboard.

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