where wildly different is perfectly normal
Rhubarb resurrected
Rhubarb resurrected

Rhubarb resurrected

Three things stand out from the hellish blur that was selling our house in Colorado. All were of the what the WHAT? variety. The first was our realtor undergoing emergency surgery at the very moment we were signing the closing papers. The second was receiving a check from the sale that was barely enough for a tank of gas (and I’m not bitter about this at all! two years later…grumblegrumble…). And the third was when the new owners asked us what the big weird-looking plant on the south side of the backyard was.


Dear sweet innocent new owners, that’s Roger the Rhubarb Plant Hell-Bent on World Domination. Roger was a beloved family member, and the topic of many a post here. Also? Rhubarb is apparently my humor muse; I was hells funnier back then. Wow. Anyhoodle, the new owners had never heard of rhubarb, had never seen it, had no idea what to do with it. I’m going to hope they fell into a deep romantic relationship with the vegetable, and not a one-day-stand with a landscaper to have it ripped out. (Dear Colorado friends, just let me believe Roger still lives, it makes me happy).

Since moving here just shy of two years ago we have been rhubarb-less. And it has been full of sads. We long ago scraped clean the last jar of my rhubarb marmalade, licked the last bit of strawberry-rhubarb jam off our fingers even longer ago, and hoarded the chopped rhubarb Tom’s mom gave us until we could no longer stand it and baked it into a crumble. Then we had this horrible supply and demand black-market chore-trading problem…and that was just between me and Tom. The boys were worse. We all shed a little tear when that pan was empty. More sads.

I even looked at the sad stalks of rhubarb at the store a few weeks ago, but decided my marriage was more important. Tom firmly believes that one should never purchase rhubarb, that it’s horrible luck to do so. One must grow one’s own rhubarb, or steal it from the neighbors in the dead of night. So I quietly sniffled and moved on to the bananas.

But! A great day is upon us! Rhubarb has returned to our land! There has been much rejoicing.

rhubarb resurrected

Now that is a rhubarb patch. Yes, it is still on the small side, but trust me when I say Roger was smaller when we popped him into the ground, so I have high hopes for this circle of delight. It’s also the first bit of landscaping I’ve done in the backyard. Yes, I said *I*. That plot was my little project yesterday. I dragged the 22 pound stones out there, I ripped out the grass, I dug the out the dirt, I lined it with stones (it isn’t as much of a wonky circle in person, pinky promise), I lined with the aforementioned 22 pound stones, I filled it with clean dirt, and I planted three (yes, three!) rhubarb plants. It’s the best looking thing in the backyard, and I am unreasonably proud of it.

We’re still tossing around names for it; Roger 2.0 is in the lead, though a smartass friend suggested Jen’s Mutant Rhubarb Plant. Whatever we call it, I hope soon we can call it crumble…marmalade…and jam.


Whaddya think?

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