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Lily of the Valley. Pink Peony. Rhubarb. These first flavors of late spring are the old-fashioned ones, the ones that gilded the yard of my grandmother, Alice Abowd, on Maple Street in Fostoria.
I remember long aisles of rhubarb especially, and I remember being surprised that the stalks were edible. She made rhubarb sauce, or rhubarb pie. We were talking recently about all of the glorious corners of my mom’s yard back on Wagon Wheel Lane, where she had what she called her mother’s lily of the valley, her peonies, her rhubarb.
The connection continues was always a kind of lifeline for Mom, as though when these bloom, her mama is back with her again in a way that she wasn’t all winter long.
By luck and grace, my own yard today blooms every spring with a big patch of lily of the valley, and a beauty of a peony. The rhubarb is missing, so I have to tap in where it grows wild along the river where I run. For the season, I pass there and my mind goes straight to my grandmother’s yard, my mother’s yard, and how those places were expressions of who they were, and how the very sight of it all every spring still connects Mom to her mom, and me to them.
That rhubarb along the river also gets me going on how delicious its tart flavor is, and all of the ways it would taste so great—saucy and in pies, yes, the old-fashioned way with Mom’s best pie crust. But also anew, layered with tart labneh and paired with pistachio for flavor and a dazzling color combination.
I like to move quickly and easily with my rhubarb pistachio tart, by using purchased puff pastry. Mom and her mom would be okay with that, and more than okay with the look and taste of this one.
Meanwhile I’m surveying the yard this spring, planning to expand the bed of lily of the valley (more is more), looking for a spot to plant the missing rhubarb, so the circle with be complete.
