I have vivid memories of rhubarb plants growing wild – almost like weeds – around my grandparents’ farm in rural Montana when I was a kid. Throughout the month of June, we’d run outside, my grandma close behind with a paring knife to slice off a few stalks, which we’d proceed to dunk in our own personal bowls of sugar. Each bite was crunchier and sweeter than the last – and tasted like summer.
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