Rhubarb Memories

An index card fell out of one of my cookbooks the other day, and it startled me to recognize my Grandma Weldt's handwriting.  The card was strangely white and fresh, unlike the other index cards that comprise the recipe collection I inherited from her.  I don't have any idea how this card became separated from the pack; in fact, I'm not sure I've ever seen this recipe card in my life.

"Rhubarb Iced Tea."  I also do not remember drinking rhubarb iced-tea with my grandmother.  My grandfather was an avid gardener, and it does not surprise me that Grandma would've been trying to find uses for all that rhubarb. I do remember her strawberry rhubarb pie, or even just "strawberry rhubarb" dumped along side meat, potatoes and veggies on her brown and yellow dinner plates as an extra little yummy at supper.  But this simple recipe: rhubarb, water, and sugar is not consistent with my memories of her.  Especially the "serve with a mint sprig" part.

My grandmother was a quiet and gentle woman with a brood of seven children and twenty-one grandchildren.  She met and married my grandpa in six weeks time before he went off to war, when she was young and pretty and looked remarkably similar to my sister Kristy.Grandpa was totally in love with Grandma until the day he died. My grandpa was a loud, generous, busy, high-profile kind of guy.  My grandma was the gravity center of calm.  When I recall her memory, she is conjured seated at her kitchen table, with her cup of coffee, her bird feeders outside the window as busy as Dunkin Donuts in the morning rush hour.  Perhaps the men in the family are crowding around, grabbing coffee and bakery, or grandkids are running through wearing snorkeling masks and swinging badminton rackets, or she and I are sitting alone, and her fingernails click against the deck of cards she is effortlessly shuffling.  Her laugh is the sound of a bubbling brook, unable to be replicated by any other in my ears. 

My grandma died less than a month after my wedding, which she was too sick to attend.  One of my aunts or my father thoughtfully gave me her recipes when they were going through her things, and it is by far the best of her physical possessions I could have been given. I actually don't remember many dinners she cooked: Grandpa's elaborate Sunday dinners have won top culinary billing in the family.  Poor grandma probably cleaned up the aftermath of those dinners, though. Once in awhile I shuffle through her cards and wonder why she included some of the things she did, or why there were duplicates of certain recipes, and if she really tried that tomato gelatin thing.  It gives me a glimpse of her that I didn't know. There was a lot about her I may never know.  Like whether or not she served Rhubarb Tea in tall glasses with mint sprigs to her friends.

I like to think that she just recently dashed off that recipe and tucked it where she knew I'd find it, knowing how into tea I've been lately.  My grandma lived in Northern Wisconsin and like me, knows the sigh that comes to the heart when everyone else is reporting crocuses while we are looking out on a foot of fresh snow.  I'd also like to think she wants to cheer me up with thoughts that one of spring's first fruits isn't that far away: hang on, it's coming, dear.  When the market opens, I'll be sure to buy some rhubarb, or maybe I'll brave the deer and plant some myself.

Feminist writers often remind us to remember where we came from, to think about our mothers and grandmothers and how they've contributed to who we are.  We are connected to them.  Their struggles and joys are part of our story too. What strength and encouragement are the memories of your female relatives offering you today?