Spring's prowess

Because my birthday falls on the first day of spring I, like Persephone, feel a little bit of ownership towards it. For me spring is the beginning. Much more than January 1st, which, although I've not lived on the East coast for some time, I associate with the middle of deeply cold and bitter weather.

People who have my birthday are odd ones. We fall on the cusp of the first astrological sign and the last. Once I was looking through a book that chronicled all the days of the year and spoke about the personalities of the people born on those days. There was a quote on every page. March 20th read, "You will confuse people."

Having believed and felt down to the core that I am a Pisces, I have been recently informed that I am now an Aries. That I am turning into an Aries. I am fighting it all the way. Which, my friend says, is proof that I'm an Aries.

Spring is the gateway to fruit. Pastry chefs all over the world rejoice when spring comes. Rhubarb, then strawberries, cherries a bit later and then an avalanche of stone fruit. Spring is ramps and fiddle head ferns. And Morels! Fruit and vegetables with the rains running through their little photosynthesized selves.

It took me years to appreciate rhubarb. Unlike most people I am not a fan of cooked strawberries and gag at the thought of soft and stringy rhubarb with them in a pie. I am interested in what rhubarb has to offer all on its own. It's full of water, really crunchy and highly acidic. This, of course, means that the average American wants to cook the hell out of it with loads of sugar. Like cardoons, rhubarb's integrity is daunting.

My turning point with this red stalked creature came when I worked for Claudia Fleming at Gramercy Tavern. Claudia was the fiercest pastry chef I ever worked for. She wanted us to do impossible tasks and had no problem terrorizing us into submission.

Claudia liked rhubarb. She understood it and she appreciated it. In The Last Course   The Desserts of Gramercy Tavern, her stunning book, she has three recipes that star rhubarb. Sophisticated, bold and innovative desserts. But not the one that changed my course with this enigmatic stem.

In a large rondo we were to bring simple syrup up to boil, shut the heat off and immediately pour in rhubarb that had been cut to brunoise. We were to swirl it just a bit and then take out the tiny ruby bits very quickly so that the end result was still crunchy. Can you say insane? After the day when she caught me utilizing the method that another assistant told me about, and screamed at me so loud the entire line stopped cooking (all 8 stations), she made me the only one responsible for this Spanish Inquisition-like task. She knew, even before I did, that I liked getting to know the nature of things.

Just knowing how is never enough for me. I need to know why.

Because rhubarb's water content is so high, the syrup that one poaches it in must be of a higher viscosity than water. It feels like it shouldn't make sense--- the sweeter and more dense the syrup is, the less sugar the rhubarb actually absorbs. This is the basic premise for why a saute pan needs to be hot before the oil goes in and why mushrooms shouldn't be washed with water. {osmotic reciprocity.}

And rhubarb is not necessarily red. I saw some really lanky green stalks at Chez Panisse last year. They made some nice cobblers and crisps with rhubarb. The trick to holding the rhubarb's shape together in the long baking times is to put it in the oven right after it's been tossed with sugar. If it sits in the sugar it macerates and gets soggier and more limp in the oven.

And rhubarb is an underdog. It's considered old fashioned and out of date. Many people will tell you they despise rhubarb even though, when pushed, they are unsure if they have ever actually eaten it.

bright rhubarb galette     rose geranium scented creme fraiche sauce and aspic of vanilla-rhubarb consomme

"You put the romance back in rhubarb!" This was a note I received after an older couple had eaten this dessert which was one of my firsts at Aziza two springs ago.

Here in Northern California we are getting drenched this spring. But today I saw my first fiddle head ferns, I'm holding my breath for Mariquita's new tender crop of stinging nettles, and last week I heard murmurings of morels. Deep, soft whispers behind a hand, and darting eyes wondering who might've heard, about a mushroom.

Spring is mischievous. She is siren and the sailor who crashes at her rocks; the ever perilous & precarious edge of weather. Spring is the trickery that turns rhubarb into fruit and coaxes bees out to sex tender blossoms. It's about blush and waiting, savoring and seducing, getting drunk on an effervescence of scent.

Comments

[Dr. Biggles]

Time for a smoke, yeah.

[Barbara]

I read somewhere once rhubarb is actually a vegetable. I thought about experimenting and making a tomato and rhubarb soup. Will get around to it one day.

[sfmike]

And you are a siren, from a happily wrecked sailor.

[Grace]

Finally a site where "craft" applies to both the writing and the cooking, a site with more substance than pretty adjectives to describe food. A toast to the siren as well as a bit of harbor light to the shipwrecked sailor!