Rhubarb season is here, and with it comes all sorts of childhood memories. A big patch in back of our next-door neighbors’ garage was a treasure we looked forward to every year. We kids would snap off stalks to chomp on, the intense sour seemingly not a problem for us as we sat in a circle telling ghost stories into the dark on balmy summer evenings. It may even have enhanced the spooky atmosphere.
And, when he wasn’t practicing optometry, my Uncle Reub was a big-time gardener and grafter of tree fruit. In his garden was a large patch of rhubarb from which my Aunt Bea, a phenomenal cook and baker, incorporated the veggie into fabulous strawberry-rhubarb pies.
Perhaps due to these fond memories, perhaps because it is a super-easy plant to maintain, I still love rhubarb, and have two different varieties growing in my garden. In fact, one of the plants came from my father’s backyard, and I have recently offered a piece of that plant to my eldest son, Seth. Given my total lack of success with bonsai, I figured this would be my way of perpetuating the family love of gardening and a memento of his grandfather. Growing the family tree, as it were.
I also believe that rhubarb has the power to save a romance. The first time my then-boyfriend came to visit, my stepmother had cooked mackerel for dinner. The house reeked of the oily fish, so I rushed out to the garden, picked some stalks, grabbed a pint of strawberries from the fridge, and baked a pie. By the time Joel arrived, flowers in hand, the house smelled divine. He is now my husband.
Although the repertoire of recipes for this beloved veggie isn’t vast, there are enough dishes to make use of my garden’s crop. I refer you to this recipe for a fabulous rhubarb bread, with the suggestion to add a teaspoon of vanilla to the batter to make it perfect, and the warning that there may be too much batter for the recommended loaf pan. It may overflow. Enjoy! http://allrecipes.com/recipe/237548/rhubarb-bread/
So, I promised to bring muffins to my beloved father-in-law who is currently in a rehab hospital. Pumpkin spice seemed seasonally appropriate and the recipe online got five-star raves, so what could be bad? I donned my apron. When the muffins came out like soup, I was more than a bit annoyed. After all, I had followed the directions carefully.
But! Talk about clouds and silver linings. The bulls, having left their bros during the rut, galloped across the plains with their harems. We didn’t view any fights among bulls vying for the ladies’ affection, but we did view one between two antelope.
been hanging on for days, with no relief in sight. But the weather didn’t deter us; we were off on our very first mushroom hunting expedition. I had been dreaming about this for months and nothing would stand in my way.
Although I had a boyfriend of Iraqi-Kurdish descent when I was young, and spent a fair amount of time at his family’s home, I had never heard of, much less eaten, a sabich. But on a recent visit to Israel I was introduced to this iconic sandwich made with fried eggplant, tehina, hummus, hardboiled egg, Israeli salad, pickles, sometimes a potato, and pickled mango sauce called amba– all stuffed into a pita or rolled into laffa. What was once a traditional Saturday morning breakfast for Iraqi Jews has become an Israeli street food almost as popular as falafel. 
A long time ago I attended a Billy Joel concert with hubby and friends. Seated across the aisle from us was the artist’s then-wife, Christie Brinkley, and their toddler child. (I did say this was a long time ago). Both mother and child were wearing the type of ear protectors that one sees worn by airport workers out on the tarmac. They needed them because the music was almost-literally ear-splitting. I had to cover my ears the entire evening.