Rhubarb

I don't know if I ever tasted rhubarb before I moved to Vermont.

My only recollection was a story my Great Aunt Minnie told about a dessert she called "stick pie" that contained green and maroon stalks. I, however, was unaffiliated.

When we arrived in the Green Mountains, we found three patches located right outside the parsonage. I remember stooping over, breaking off a section, and tasting its tart-sweetness. I was left shocked and intrigued.  

I still didn't know what the hell to do with it.

For the next few summers, Lauren and I would pick a few pounds, nibbling on them here and there, but mostly for the purpose of taking them down to the community farmstand.

And then a revelation.

Not from a disciple named John. But from a chef in Louisville, Kentucky. 

I was missing the South. Meaning I was missing its food and storytelling. That's what led me to Edward Lee and his book "Graffiti Buttermilk:  A Chef's Journey to Discover America's New Melting Pot."

Writing about cornbread, Lee offered a rhubarb-and-strawberry jam that seemed easy to make. 

I made it and have been making it ever since. Giving some away. Stashing some in freezers. Smearing some on toast. Plopping large dabs straight out of the oven on biscuits.

Occasionally, I even use it to toss fried chicken wings.

I have no restraints or convictions about performing a culinary faux pas. I wear my green horns right alongside my apron. I'm fine with taking a chance with my so-called "Frankenstein-type" creations.

Experiment, experiment, experiment.

I treat my understanding of the sacred the same way.

These jars will go to others over the weekend. I hope their sticky goodness heals some folks in ways they didn't even know they needed.