In Yorkshire they grow rhubarb in dark sheds throughout the winter. This forced crop is harvested by candlelight and each stalk wrapped in protective plastic to keep it safe. They are delicate shoots and all of the articles I've read talk about how you can actually hear them growing in their cozy winter shelter. While their small, pale leaves have all of the verve of endive, their fleshy stalks are deep crimson and are supposed to be sweeter and more delicate than the outdoor crops of the summer. Currently there are 12 farmers who still grow rhubarb in this traditional manner in the region, a method that used to ensure at least one kind of fresh produce during the winter months until the outdoor rhubarb began to grow again in April. These farmers are working to get their crops a protected status in the face of competition from apparently inferior Dutch varieties (I do not have enough information to wade into this debate).
It is images such as these, dedicated farmers harvesting long and pink stems magically by candlelight, that make me want to pack up and move to the country. These thoughts are generally quickly followed by my reluctant acknowledgment that I am a city girl and would almost certainly lack the disposition for this kind of work. Work that is undoubtedly far more arduous and unpredictable than my romanticized daydreams could anticipate.
If I can't grow it, I'll just have to eat it. I had a hankering for stewed rhubarb to accompany the very local and prodigious crop of cakes that my flat has been producing this past week. You see, J turned 40 on Saturday and I threw a party. A funny, drunken affair that seemed to be one-part kids' party and one-part grown-up gathering. Amid some talk of mortgages, kitchen renovations and career development, the boys would sneak off to play with J's new remote control helicopter. While there were excited and nervous chats of weddings and pregnancy, balloons were also gleefully popped and silly dancing went on until I couldn't stand up anymore (I truly apologize to the longsuffering people who live below us). I bought a lot of candy and paper masks as if anticipating six-year-olds, but also placed fresh tulips in the bathroom. There was an inordinate amount of alcohol and too many cakes. A huge Chocolate Stout one (taken from this recipe - it has something like 280 positive reviews. It's ridiculous, but the cake deserves it.), a chocolate chip, pecan and Jack Daniel's cake with a caramel glaze and a lemon pound cake. These were some nice pieces of baking if I do say so myself, but despite force-feeding the guests, I had too much left over (especially since I technically made two of the Jack Daniel's cake as the first one didn't come out of the pan properly and was too ugly to serve, but too tasty to throw out and was therefore snacked on at odd moments for a couple of days before being sacrificed to the tea room at work. Nothing makes it out of there unconsumed.) The morning after, there were only small pieces of the chocolate/beer and JD ones left, small enough that they could be discretely eaten over the next week without much issue, but the lemon cake, the least sexy, but arguably the most satisfying, was left mostly untouched. It had quite a firm texture that I though would be a perfect candidate for recycling as its eating days were likely to be numbered and were sure to pass before I managed to eat it all. It was in need of a new life, a different path, some cake redemption.
So I made this. A bread pudding strewn with rhubarb and with a lot of lemon zest and juice. But, of course, instead of bread I used the languishing lemon cake. I served it with stewed rhubarb, and breaking with the British convention of serving everything with custard, put a little heap of sweetened sour cream on top of the messy pile. This a recipe for January, I think. When you need bright and magically local produce and when having more cake than one can eat actually seems like a possibility. At other times of year, times that don't follow the gluttony of Christmas quite so closely, complaining about a bounty like that would be akin to asking for just a bit less money on your paycheque.
On a side note: I have no idea if the rhubarb I used was from the growers of Yorkshire or the devious Dutch. When I asked the girl at the counter of my very lovely fruit and veg shop she said "I don't know". When I asked if there was anyone around who could tell me she laughed and said no. I'm going to believe that it was because it was perfect and very dark red and had tiny pale leaves just like it should. If it was Dutch, then perhaps I do have an opinion about this issue after all...
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