
Rhubarb is one of the most generous crops a British garden can offer. Plant a crown in well-manured ground in autumn, keep it clear of weeds, and it will reward you for a decade or more with stems from late March right through to mid-summer. It asks for almost nothing beyond a sunny-ish spot and a little patience in its first year, when you should resist the temptation to pull anything at all and let the plant establish properly.
One important note before we go further: the leaves are toxic and should never be eaten. Twist them off and add them to the compost heap, where they break down perfectly well. The stems, though, are wonderfully versatile — sharp enough to cut through sweetness in a pudding, but sturdy enough to hold their shape in a chutney.
Always pull rather than cut. Take each stem near the base, twist gently and tug — it should come away with a satisfying snap. Only ever harvest about a third of the plant in a season, and stop by the end of June so the crown can build up reserves for next year.
In the kitchen, trim the leafy end and the dry base, then wipe the stems with a damp cloth. Young stems need no peeling; older, thicker ones may benefit from a light strip of the stringy outer layer. Rhubarb is highly acidic, so avoid aluminium pans, which will discolour and taint the fruit. A stainless steel or enamelled pan is what you want.
Forced rhubarb, grown under a bucket or terracotta pot in late winter, is pale, tender and delicately flavoured — treat it gently and barely cook it. Outdoor stems pulled in May are coarser and more robust, and they are the ones to use for preserving.
This is the recipe most households come back to, and it is endlessly forgiving. For four generous portions, you will need 700g prepared rhubarb, 100g caster sugar, the finely grated zest of an orange, and 1 tbsp cornflour. For the topping: 150g plain flour, 75g cold butter, 75g demerara sugar, 50g porridge oats and a pinch of salt.
Cut the rhubarb into 3cm lengths, toss with the caster sugar, zest and cornflour, and tip into a buttered ovenproof dish. Rub the butter into the flour until it resembles coarse breadcrumbs, then stir through the demerara, oats and salt. Scatter over the fruit without pressing it down. Bake at 190°C (170°C fan, gas 5) for 35–40 minutes, until the topping is deep golden and the juices bubble up at the edges.
If you find crumbles often turn soggy underneath, roast the fruit first: spread it on a tray with the sugar and bake for 15 minutes, then top and finish. The cornflour does much of the same work by thickening the juices as they cook.
Rhubarb makes a superb chutney — sharp, rosy and excellent with cold ham, mature cheese or a pork pie. You need 1kg rhubarb, chopped, 500g onions, finely sliced, 300g soft brown sugar, 300ml cider vinegar, 50g fresh root ginger, peeled and grated, 1 tsp mustard seeds, 1 tsp salt and a pinch of dried chilli flakes.
Put everything except the rhubarb into a heavy pan and bring slowly to a simmer, stirring until the sugar dissolves. Cook for 20 minutes until the onion has softened, then add the rhubarb and continue simmering for 30–40 minutes, stirring often, until the mixture is thick and a spoon drawn through leaves a clean channel.
Pot into warm, sterilised jars while hot, seal, and leave somewhere cool and dark. It will keep for at least six months unopened, though the flavour genuinely improves if you leave it a month before cracking the first jar.
What makes rhubarb so treasured in the countryside is its timing. It arrives in that hungry gap of early spring, when the hedgerows are bare and the apple store is down to its last few wrinkled fruit. There is something deeply satisfying about carrying a colander out to the patch in April and coming back with something bright and pink when almost nothing else is ready.
Gluts are inevitable, and that is where a little forward planning pays off. Swap a bag of stems over the garden gate, keep a jar of chutney back for the village show, and freeze the rest in useful portions. A well-tended crown quietly turns a quiet corner of the plot into puddings, preserves and puddings again — which is, in the end, exactly what a country kitchen is for.
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