By the time the trees leaf out, I have already tired of summer. May leaves me listless after all those blooms, preparing for the truly hot days and eyeing the green nervously--that green that stole me away from parsing sentences each year and the secret freedom of sharpening a pencil in the back of the room. The asparagus and the rhubarb arrive just as I've descended into full-fledged mourning, and I spend a couple of weeks protesting the coming of the leaves, filling my house with lilacs and reading Whitman and pretending the early blooms haven't gone, that the first peonies won't arrive for another few days. These stolen spring weeks are all rhubarb to me: all that is sour, all that is sweet. The green is coming, most assuredly, the peonies already here. But today for breakfast butter and flake give way to the sort of sour that also is sweet, the sort of sour that also is sweet.
Regarding rhubarb galettes, the making of, Lily has the sort of recipe one might follow if one were a follower of recipes. I recommend buying enough rhubarb for two. My darlings, you're going to need two.