The Perfect Summer Breakfast

If it's a Saturday in June and I've found a way to have rhubarb happily burbling away on my stove, I'm in heaven.

I know I've mentioned my love of what I call stewed rhubarb, what my kitcheny friend Kristina somewhat more romantically calls Rhubarb Compote, on these pages before. I really should add rhubarb compote to my lexicon. I mean, stewed rhubarb....yuck, I understand why those who haven't tried it would politely decline. But, to me, the tangy-sweet and sour, slightly salty, spread slathered over buttered rye toast evokes happy memories of my childhood summers and I find I can't get enough of it this time of year.

My grandparent's were raised gardeners. From the depression era gardens of their childhood in rural Pennsylvania, to their own patriotic Victory gardens at their WW II home in Baltimore, they knew the value of growing your own. That's one trait I didn't seem to pick up from them. I have no talent or desire for gardening and my rhubarb tends to come from the produce aisle. But that fact doesn't diminish the memory for me.

I grew up in the upstate NY home that my grandparents raised their children in, grew old and eventually died in. My early summer memories almost all involve the big garden they and my parents laid out every year. I recall running through rows of tall corn stalks, my feet bare on the hot, dry tilled earth. I remember digging up potatoes and carrots that went directly from the garden to the dinner table. I would eagerly check the watermelon patch to see if they were ready to enjoy. I seem to remember being "forced" into the manual labor of tediously weeding...though my mother laughs at that and assures me I didn't spend very much time at that chore. I fondly reminisce about playing around with the garden hose, spraying myself or my cousins more than the garden, and drinking thirstily from the little water fountain my grandfather attached every year to one of the spickets. And I remember my grandfather, dripping sweat under the big straw hat and kerchief he always donned in the garden, pulling ripe rhubarb stalks, bringing them in the kitchen for a quick wash, sprinkling salt and crunching contentedly on his fine work. As I child I found, and still find honestly, rare rhubarb a little too sour and stringy for me. But when my grandmother would take that fresh rhubarb and stew it down with a little water, a little lemon juice and salt, and a whole lot of sugar...well then. Then it was heaven. The key, too, comes with the rye toast. The hint of bitter, the silky touch of butter added to the tang of the rhubarb....YUM.