I’m going to be real honest with you for a moment: I did not know that rhubarb came in stalks until a few years ago. I feel plenty of shame for this, so please: judge my ignorance in silence. I don’t think I ever thought about what it actually was shaped like (A berry? A melon? A big amorphous blob of yum?), nor could I actually pin point its distinct flavor. Rarely does rhubarb get a solo performance: it’s usually second fiddle to its frenemy the strawberry. Don’t get me wrong, this magical combination has driven me to many a pie-eating contest (against myself), but it’s time to give rhubarb it’s due.
Food ruts? Yes, I’m familiar. It really hits that you’re in the middle of a funk when a completely brilliant, original recipe or concept crosses your path. The simplicity. The beauty. You smack your forehead and cry out to the abyss “Of course! The bean IS the sauce! It all makes sense again, great merciful god above me!” Then you slide down from the euphoria and excitement into a bottomless pit of depression: “I am clearly incapable of such originality. I do not deserve this whisk. I shall curl into a ball and eat Kraft cheese products until my pants explode.”
A well-meaning fellow in Whole Foods told me the other day that, in order to be truly healthy, I have to completely cut out sugar from my diet.