Rhubarb   Like the rest of us you’re an immigrant— arriving on the boat from Vladivostok, starved of light in European hothouses.   A vegetable masquerading as fruit, your roots are purgative, your leaves poisonous, but your stalk is tart, delicious, versatile.   Stewed with apples you give life to cereal, you populate pies, you fold through whipped cream with the swirling intelligence of a fool.   Is that why when we’ve nothing to say, when we need to fill the air with dramatic chatter, we utter your name: rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb?   Andy Kissane  

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