May 8, 2002 4 min read

Rhubarb. Like most people of his era, my father grew up on a farm. The house, a modest two story frame home that my great-grandfather and grandfather built, provided comfortable refuge for a family of six: parents and four children, among which was dad.

Farm life in the 20s and 30s, even with the Great Depression, didn’t change much and was, by all accounts, much easier than for those people who lived in cities and relied on an employer for their livelihood.

On the farm you had plenty of food, even if there wasn’t much ready cash. You might call it subsistence living but at the time it was just plain living, simply.

Dad grew up on a diet of butter, red meat, whole milk, sugar, cakes, cookies, pies made with real lard, etc., which probably contributed to his bypass surgery about a decade ago.

But one thing he couldn’t tolerate on the menu was rhubarb. And I don’t mean the cat by that name (There was a film in the 1940s, for those who aren’t aficionados of late-night TV, and also, I believe, a TV program).

“I couldn’t stand the stuff,’ he said, screwing up his lips like he had just sucked a lemon.

How the subject came up was my lovely wife had been cooking rhubarb in her crock-pot this past weekend.

I walked into the kitchen and, thinking it might be a roast or some other succulent entree, lifted the lid.

The aroma hit me immediately.

And it reminded me just as instantly of my Grandma Pletcher’s kitchen.

“That’s what that smell was,’ I said.

For years, my grandparents’ home had an odor, a smell, not a noxious or unpleasant one, but one of distinction. You could have blindfolded me and walked me into that kitchen day or night, any hour or season, and I would have known exactly where I was.

“She was cooking it all the time. Or it seemed like it to me,’ dad said.

I don’t recall it myself, although I ate enough sumptuous meals there.

I know common recipes for rhubarb, which is a vegetable, include pies, sauces, and toppings. Just out of curiosity I surfed the Web to see what information might be there concerning this edible plant.

Surprised by hundreds of sites offering everything from its history to books offering dozens of recipes, I learned a little about this plant with pink-tinged leaves and green stalks.

Did you know that the earliest known information about rhubarb dates to the ancient Chinese Empire at about 2700 B.C.E. (before the common era) and that its principal use was medicinal? And that its introduction to Europe came through Marco Polo? How about the fact that it wasn’t an indigenous plant in America?

A New England farmer in 1790 or 1800 got some seed from Europe and began growing it here. By 1822, it was being sold in vegetable markets and its popularity exploded during the 19th and 20th centuries.

I doubt if any of this would impress dad. He still doesn’t like its taste, which he described as being tart or bitter. I suppose that could explain why the word rhubarb is slang for a noisy dispute.

I think dad should be more appreciative. After all from China to his mother’s kitchen is quite a journey. Of course she also used Castor Oil as a cure for what ailed him.

I’m sure that caused quite a rhubarb at the time. Ha, ha. Dad will get me for that one.

Have a good day.

Jim Pletcher is the Herald-Standard’s business editor. E-mail: jpletcher@heraldstandard.com.