Why, Rhubarb, why?

It’s our anniversary, and I’m completely unprepared.  The social worker at work is having none of my excuses.

“Do something special for him!”  She says, “It is important in a marriage to keep things fresh!  You will thank me later.”

Hmm.  “Special”.

I have some rhubarb in the fridge.  Rhubarb is different, rhubarb is…”special”…

My husband is always complimenting my pancakes…

(*cue the foreboding music*)

I search the internet for some recipes.  Oddly, they are generally for serving pancakes with rhubarb, like on the side, or as a compote.  Can’t seem to find any with rhubarb embedded into the pancakes.  Hmm…wait, found one!*

Just a few minor adjustments, a little zazz, some cinnamon, ginger…

Hey, this is looking good!


I take a bite.  The rhubarb bites back, all tart and angry!  Hey, rhubarb, what gives?

I try thinner pancakes.  Maybe rhubarb will cook down, chill out a bit.

But these are just uglier.


I get desperate. Sal will wake up soon!  I try straining rhubarb from the batter, dumping in honey, throwing in sugar –


it’s all going terribly wrong.

I fry the rhubarb, gently, trying to coax out the sweet zingyness I know is in there!


I put the mixture back in the batter, and try the pancakes again.  They’re pitiful, so thin – crepe-like but without the delicate Frenchness of real crepes.

I have, as we say in Appalachia, a “come to Jesus” moment.  This is not “special”.  This is gross.

I have to get rid of the evidence.  I have to dispose of them, quietly and quickly, because Sal will literally eat anything to spare my feelings.


I wash up everything.  Sal comes into the clean kitchen, blinking sleepily.

“Let’s go out for brunch!” I say.

He smiles. “Ok!”

Rhubarb, you win this time.

*I did not include the link to the recipe I used, because this experiment was a dire failure.

N.B. – one of my dear readers and colleagues lent me a lovely Jamie Oliver book after reading “Right, rhubarb“.  I left it at work, of course.  I’d like to thank her and our social worker for their good-intentioned advice / ideas.  This advice, although providing inspiration for the above Rhubarb Catastrophe, was in no way a contributor to the end result.  For this, I blame myself.  And my dad.  For passing on his nefarious Mad Scientist gene to me.


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