A story from one of my parents' trips with their Rotary Club: They were in Jersey, not New Jersey but the Isle of Jersey off the coast of England, and at a dinner with the entire group. Apparently, when you don't want to listen to what someone else is saying, all you do is chant, "Rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb!" over and over. Mum and Dad came home and told us that story -- and we've never forgotten it. I guess it was my destiny to be the kind of writer that I am: Our best family stories are inspired by others.
I collected the first stalks of our homegrown rhubarb this week and stewed it up for my husband, who loves to eat it on toast. He says this is how he remembers eating rhubarb as a kid.
It still bugs me, even though we've moved beyond lamenting, past planting, and into harvesting, that I didn't start a rhubarb garden as soon as I moved here nine years ago.
In fact, looking back, I'm sorry I spent so much time and money on flower gardens. I wish now I'd invested more in a raspberry patch and rhubarb patch, and planted a couple of sour cherry trees.
Just think of the sour cherry pies I'd be making this July if I'd done that?
Well, it's the same with publishing a book: It's never too late. You can't harvest if you don't plant.
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