Forgotten Gifts

     I was cleaning out the refrigerator the other day--actually cleaning it, not eating my way through the contents--and came across a plastic bag with some sad looking rhubarb in it. I knew that it had been there at least a week and maybe even two. My first impulse was to throw it out. That is often my first impulse with back of the frig food. Bruce's dad had picked it, cleaned it and even cut it into small pieces before presenting it to me--fresh, beautiful and ready to be made into a marmalade, cobbler or crisp. The care with which Dad handled it before turning its fate over to me, made this odd spring vegetable/fruit(the debate rages on) worthy of  more than a cursory glance before being tossed out.

     The ends of the stalks looked dry and were beginning to turn up, giving them the look of a party favor popper. I gently squeezed the bag to test for that slimy feeling that produce gets when it has given up all hope of developing into anything other than compost. This hardy batch was still firm and daring me to inspect it even closer.

     I opened the bag and inhaled the tart, tangy and slightly earthy smell that is the hallmark of this plant that is believed to have originated in China over 4000 years ago. However, the history that rhubarb has as an ancient Chinese medicine, the fact that it is high in vitamins A and C and minerals such as calcium meant very little to me. Its more recent history as a thoughtful and loving gift of time and effort from Dad meant everything. I couldn't throw it out.

     I went to the bookshelf and looked at the collection of cookbooks, neglected since December, that had belonged to Bruce's mom. I gently eased a very tattered one from the shelf. It was the collection of recipes lovingly compiled in 1979  by the congregation of Grace Lutheran Church, the church that has been home to generations of Johnsons. It no longer had a cover, front or back. There were torn pages and missing pages. There were pages that were falling out. I love this cookbook. It has recipes submitted by Mom and Grandma Johnson. It has recipes that have Mom's distinctive handwriting where she tweaked the ingredients or method to make it her own. It has recipes clipped from magazines and newspapers and taped into the book wherever there was a blank space that needed filling.

     As mentioned earlier, the cookbook has pages that are falling out. That day, however, I truly believe that one jumped out. I opened the book and a page literally fell into my lap and this is what I saw:

   

     I prefer not to try to find logical reasons for some things. It's quite possible that I had seen this recipe during an earlier perusal of this very special cookbook and my subconscious mind stored the information away for me to use on this particular day. It's possible, but my heart doesn't know that. I don't know why I chose to clean out the refrigerator that day and then to find the forgotten gift of rhubarb from Dad. I don't know why I haven't written anything for months and now find myself drawn back to this blog. I'm just really glad that small miracles happen every single day and that sometimes we recognize them.