Rhubarbarian

I made a rhubarb crumble at the cafe and when I came home I noticed that the bucket had blown off my forced rhubarb which is nurtured in a couple of old car tyres.

This quintessentially British pudding ingredient has exotic roots, distant in time and place: native to Russia, Siberia and the Orient it was mentioned in a Chinese herbal 5000 years BP and then again by Dioscorides. Over the millennia it was traded far and wide, commanding a higher value than precious spices, more even than opium. But not for puddings or pies: it was the root that was prized, as a purgative, a diuretic and an astringent. These roots (which can reach the size of a man's thigh apparently) were air-dried for preservation in various ways: the Mongols slung them on strings between the horns of their sheep as they grazed across the windy steppes, prior to being traded far and wide. Marco Polo may have been the first to bring rhubarb to Europe but there's little doubt the barbarian root, powdered, did wonders for the constipated bowels of mediaeval folk and were much in demand despite their high price.

It was not until the second half of the 18th century that the plants were successfully cultivated in Britain. There are competing claims for primacy but most agree that an apothecary of Banbury, William Hayward, germinated seeds from Russia in 1777. He nurtured the young plants with the greatest of care, patrolling the beds at night to remove slugs. Once rhubarb had been established it took the country by storm when epicures discovered that the stems made a delicious rival to gooseberries and what's more could be forced for culinary use early in the year when other fresh fruit was not yet available. Although whether rhubarb constitutes a fruit is a moot point. It's a little tart in a tart and not everyone likes that.

Well, enough of this rhubarb, rhubarb from me - it's long past bedtime.