BEST OF MARCH
Rosie Birkett’s rhubarb recipes, plus prep advice
British forced rhubarb is one of the seasonal specialities I look forward to the most. Available from mid-january to March (after which it’s replaced by field-grown varieties), it’s the life and soul of the party, announcing itself flamboyantly with its fuschia trunks and mouth-puckering sourness. It simply begs to be poached in syrup or roasted with sugar, citrus and ginger until tender but still shapely, willing you to smother it in cream, custard or yogurt. Emerging in winter, this dazzling vegetable is a gateway to spring and a sign of good things to come, but it’s also a reminder to enjoy what we have right now. The irony, though, is that it’s not seasonal at all; rather, it’s grown in a way that tricks the plant into thinking it’s spring. Predominantly grown in dark, humid sheds in the ‘Rhubarb Triangle’ – a 23km-square area in West Yorkshire – the bright pink stems known as forced rhubarb are the petioles of the rhubarb plant. It requires two to three years of cultivation in well-fertilised fields before harvesting so that the roots can store energy from the sun as carbohydrates. After experiencing a frost – crucial for triggering growth – the hefty roots are moved into cramped, damp sheds. It’s at this point that the stems start to shoot up, as the plant transforms the stored carbohydrates into glucose, creating the sour-sweet flavour that’s so wonderful for cooking.
While it’s undergoing a resurgence among restaurant chefs and home cooks, the cultivation of Yorkshire forced rhubarb dates back to the early 1800s. It became so popular in the late-19th century, the Great Northern Railway Company commissioned a special daily express train to carry it to London to meet demand during its season.
A couple of years ago, I was lucky enough to visit a producer near Wakefield for Saturday Kitchen. It was surreal to hear the snap of the rhubarb growing at speed, searching for light in the darkness as it was being harvested by candlelight. Rhubarb requires a cold climate to flourish, and as winters get warmer, the season is pushed back. The labour-intensive and time-consuming process of growing it means it commands a premium price, but we should embrace it as a special ingredient not just for its colour and flavour, but because it’s packed with antioxidants.
That’s not to say it’s not good fun – the dessert recipe on page 57 is a case in point. While it’s not exactly medicinal, it’s an indulgent, easy fool modelled after a creamy passion fruit pudding I ate in Madeira. You first roast the rhubarb with cardamom and citrus – preferably a blood orange – then make a curd with condensed milk, rhubarb purée and fiery grated ginger. The curd is folded through whipped cream and spooned into glasses before being topped with more rhubarb and pistachios.
This is a good dessert to make ahead, and if you don’t have pistachios, you can always improvise with chocolate and ginger biscuits or toasted almonds.
Have you ever eaten rhubarb raw? If not, then I implore you to make my salsa
(p56). Sharp, sweet, sour, crunchy and juicy, it adds texture and tang to anything fatty, like slow-cooked meats.
I put it on tinned mackerel on toast
– now one of my favourite quick lunches.
Embrace rhubarb for its colour, taste and nutrients