An evening glance in the old chimney pots we use for forcing rhubarb and later in the summer growing herbs, and - oh joy! - a great sprouting of palest pink rhubarb. Wind is howling around the house, Ed has gone to bed with all the shutters open leaving me feeling exposed to the gloom. Rhubarb, quickly into the pot for a gentle and brief poaching in sugar syrup and nothing else, turns the pale pink of ballet slippers and babies' nails. Eating it straight from the pot at blood temperature, it melts in the mouth, not fibrous at all. A pleasure of country living to accompany howling of the wind and beating of rain.
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