Rhubarb holds a unique place in the history and culture of this specific geographical region where I’ve lived all my life. The area known as the Rhubarb Triangle connects the boundaries of Leeds, Wakefield and Bradford, home to Yorkshire’s Forced Rhubarb.
This delicacy is exacting, not only in the specifics of its location (which diligently includes precise A-roads and junctions to define the growing area) but in every single aspect of its history and cultivation that sees it still celebrated with an annual festival.
The ‘forced’ part of forced rhubarb refers to it being grown under conditions that force the crowns into thinking it is Spring. Restricted light and careful temperature control encourage the petioles (the sticks of rhubarb) to grow tall and straight in search of light. This traditionally happens in specially designed forcing sheds, the first of which was built in the region in 1877. A readily available supply of cheap, local coal was the initial choice to heat the sheds, but these days methods of heating the sheds include well-insulated roofs, propane or diesel-fuelled burners that blow warm air or the use of heated water pipes. There are obvious issues with this, but more renewable forms of energy are being sought for environmental sustainability and economic viability.
The triangle is in the shadow of the Pennines, a frost pocket that provides the essential conditions needed for the root’s dormant phase. The frost is a catalyst for converting energy required to force the petioles to grow when light and, therefore, photosynthesis is restricted. And as much as we complain about the cold and dampness of these parts, these climatic conditions keep the soil temperatures low and heavy with water sufficient to produce high-quality petioles.
Candlelight is still used to harvest the rhubarb; this reduces the chances of any photosynthesis occurring, ensuring the associated quality characteristics remain, namely the compact yellow leaf and slender, tender sticks. Light encourages the petioles to thicken; they become tough and more acidic in flavour.
There are strict requirements regarding rootstock origin, soil preparation, root propagation and planting. Maintaining records of husbandry and harvesting is essential for traceability. It has taken generations of stewardship and the passing on of knowledge to maintain this standard. It is an example of the remarkable harmony that can exist between nature and low-tech human-scale cultivation. Careful and calculated decisions by those that practice this art of cultivation continue to protect production, for now at least.
Historically, the arrival of the first forced rhubarb provided a much-needed boost to an otherwise scarce fresh fruit scene. And today, despite the wide availability of fresh fruit all year round, chefs and bakers leap on the first fresh petioles, prized for their colour, delicately sweet flavour and versatility in sweet and savoury dishes.
The intensity of colour runs a gradient gamut from hot pink through crimson and on to amaranth red. Its hue when raw varies according to the variety, how fast it has grown, its water uptake and temperature during growth. The colour changes again depending on the way it is prepared or cooked.
A rapid (but often dangerously vicious) boil will distil the most arresting concentrated hue when making jam.
Some varieties, when roasted, will see their colour deepen and dull. However, a little pomegranate juice can help put some colour back at a push.
And a hot shock of sugar syrup to thin shards cut lengthwise (to reveal the ethereally white interior) yields something with bite, just sweet enough. (If you take this route, prepare to be endlessly reminded of crab sticks).
No wonder this forced treasure is included in the Slow Food Ark of Taste, a catalogue of unique foods that face extinction, along with the history, culture, flavours and practices associated with these foods. A direct rebuttal against the standardisation of our food system.
Cultivated crops, specific livestock breeds, crops transformed by specific preserving techniques and wild products or those with a traditional method of harvest or processing can all be considered for inclusion in the Ark of Taste.
These products often sit at the intersection between taste, history and memory, especially vulnerable to loss as our diets change at the desire and will of monopolistic corporations. They prize uniformity, exert control and restrict biodiversity for their profit. Not only does this degrade natural resources, the very physical planet we live on, but it also erodes the cultural and social ways of communities built on valuable, intangible assets that can not be commodified.
One of the best features of the ark of taste is that it does not merely catalogue the product's name but records its unique features, taste, texture, colour and flavour. Any record of food-specific words and language is as integral as the foodstuff itself if we are to stay connected to it.
But as with anything, your local library, your post office or your neighbourhood bakery, it can only exist if it is championed and used. Hence our arrival at this week’s recipe, Rhubarb and Custard Pie.
If anything is entering the ark two by two, I’m willing to bet the passenger mandate insists custard be seated firmly at the side of rhubarb. Without doubt, the most glorious thing to enjoy alongside the sharp acidity of rhubarb is a creamy covering of custard. That may be a hot blanket of custard poured from above into a bowl of rhubarb crumble or a silky custard set over a thick rhubarb pie filling.
The striking separation of the layers draws the eye and is an undeniably enticing way to enjoy the colour and flavour of forced rhubarb. I recommend a generous grating of fresh nutmeg before serving at room temperature with a jug of cold pouring cream.
Outrageously beautiful!