The spring in my step isn’t just a Spring thing. It’s because it’s rhubarb season.

rhubarb snow with ginger and black pepper crumble and prickly pear

tiptoe…thru’ the rhubarb…with me
Growing up, my sister and I would dare each other to wriggle between the stalks of this monster rhubarb plant, despite dire parental warnings of rashes and fevers. We could squat under the huge leaves and feel like we were in the Land That Time Forgot.

Forget cuckoos, groundhogs and daffodils. When rhubarb season kicks in, it feels like winter is finally over, even if it’s still chilly enough that the suggestion from my grandmother (never one to miss the first frostbite-free opportunity to eat outside) that we have a picnic sounds more intrepid than idyllic. If you feel like releasing your inner viking and dining al fresco barely south of the arctic circle while still wearing mittens, rhubarb fool seems like the perfect dessert. Make it the day before and chill overnight in glass jars, and it will survive a bumpy ride, jostled by sandwiches and thermos flasks, with its fluffiness intact. And of course the jars then serve to keep your foraged trophies (cowries, crab shells and sea glass in our case) safe on the ride home.

The other sister off to look for treasure. Note appropriate Highland spring picnic garb: layers, warm gilet with cozy pockets, wooly hat.

go ahead, make a fool of yourself
To make rhubarb fool, you need, aside from your perfectly pink (preferably forced if you can get your hands on it) stalks of rhubarb, some sugar and some heavy whipping cream. The quantities are hard to judge until you get step one under way, so bear with me and be prepared to wing it.

Trim and get rid of any leaves (toxic, by the way) and chop the stalks into small cross sections. Put these in a non-reactive pan with a decent sprinkling of sugar, and enough water to come about half way up the rhubarb. (You can add a splash of orange juice at this point too if you have some and are in the mood.) Place the pan over a medium high heat and allow the water to come to a boil, then reduce the heat a little, just so it’s not too rambunctious in there, and let the rhubarb stew until it gets soft. At this point, taste it and add more sugar until the rhubarb is just sweet - you need to leave enough tartness to cut through the cream you’re going to add. Leave the pan on the heat, stirring, until the rhubarb is broken up, the sugar dissolved, and the juices have started to thicken: the best way to test for this is to dip a spoon in and blow on it until cool to see how well the liquid in the pan will set up. Once you’re happy that you’ve reached a suitably sweetened, softened and concentrated point, put the rhubarb puree in the fridge, uncovered, until completely chilled.

Figure out how much whipped cream you will need. This is not a predetermined amount; as with all fruit fools, it is more a Euclidean ideal revealed by the depth of flavor and consistency of the cooled puree. I tend to (eye)ballpark it at two parts by volume whipped cream to three parts rhubarb, and taste as I go so I don’t lose the bite of the rhubarb in a cloud of cream. Once you’ve fixed on a nice round number, whip the cream to stiff peaks. Be really careful not to overwhip it or your fool will end up grainy rather than silky and fluffy. Fold the cream with gentle, rounded strokes into the puree a third at a time, then spoon the fool gently into your serving vessel of choice, and refrigerate it until it sets. Which will be only a little, but just enough. Serve with something crisp, like langues du chat or ginger snaps, and a spoon.

Yes, you can take it with you.

and for restoring the circulation
This Andreas Viestad suggestion for eating rhubarb is, as he puts it, “rhubarb for the hardened rhubarb lover”. Congregate:

8 thin stalks very young rhubarb, trimmed
half a cup of sugar
two thirds of a cup very cold vodka

Peel the rhubarb so that only the juicy interior remains. Place the sugar in a small bowl. Dip the rhubarb in the sugar and take small bites. Clean your mouth with sips of vodka from small glasses.

from “Kitchen of Light”, Artisan Books 2003