And now, for whatever reason, I'm somehow envisioning a timeless talk show hosted by RUe McClanahan and BARBara Walters - the RU/BARB Show ... which would be pretty weird, since they've both passed on ... And yes, I rue this comment.
I love rhubarb. I have a rhubarb pie recipe from my mother who is gone now for a quarter of a century. It is just rhubarb, sugar, heavy cream, and the crust. No one else in my family likes it so I have to eat the whole pie by myself. I'm a diabetic but I have an insulin pump.
Great poem. I can taste the deliciousness of that sandwich, grilled with love.
I loathe rhubarb. It's like paint stripper.
One Nan used to make it with quantities of sugar, still astringent enough to make your mouth pucker.
She also cooked 'sweet breads' which sounded like fluffy comfort carbohydrates. The dismay and horror when I found they were animal thymus glands. That Nan was an ace salmon fisher. Big black waders. Her special spot on the river. Jars of preserved salmon lining the walls. Fiercest person I've ever met.
I hate rhubarb! When I was a kid in the late 80s, there was a commercial for a herbicide that killed velvet leaf. The ad showed a sinister-looking vine crawling through windows. Around this time, I leaned rhubarb leaves were poisonous and had a dream that married this new knowledge with the velvet leaf ad: rhubarb thrust through the floor and grew so tall it lifted the house off the foundation. After that, I wanted nothing to do with it and would cross to the other side of the street if I saw a big rhubarb patch in someone’s yard. Those big veiny leaves nodding malevolently in the breeze horrified me, and the plants that had gone to seed horrified me even more. It didn’t help that my dad picked a stalk and chased me into the house with it. I hid in the closet and when I opened the door, there he was, waving a big green leaf in my face! To this day, I won’t eat it, and have destroyed entire muffins that I thought had rhubarb in them. Having said all that, I miss my grandma too, even though my rhubarb phobia annoyed her.
Nov 21, 2023·edited Nov 21, 2023Liked by Sherman Alexie
Sitting at the table top with gram. Those are the best memories. Poor little Sherman, I can imagine all that vividly. Both my grandmothers were good to me, I'm glad yours was too. White ppl not so much. And that's where we differ. Growing up, Indians were always a refuge. I don't think I could have survived without it. This poem is now bringing me back to violent assimilation practices. I was forced to sit at the kitchen table for hours because I couldn't stomach beets. With a very real threat of violence. First I was loved and free, a happy chatty little girl. Then I was taken away and had to endure physical and emotional torture. The academics are now coming up with definitions for all this. They came up with the term psychological torture. And I can vouch that it is a good and accurate term. And is why I have a passionate hate for #Pretendians. That scary hate is because I have an authentic need to see real Indians not just in acadamia, but more importantly, in the arts. It's also why I have a hard time forgiving Karens. And so I will leave that to someone else. Cheers.
A few ideas I want to instill in many brains:
1.I'm not going to open my phone to search for the answer
2.there's more magic in not knowing
3. nothing good happens when you know too much
4. Rhubarb should be eaten straight from the garden after prepping tongue and lips for a blissful change of scene.
An idea I should probably accept but struggle with:
"Some of the old traditions were never destined to become the new way of being."
Perhaps instead of mourning, I should see it as reason for hope.
as always you yourwords always please me
Something so precious, tender and mighty about being read to. Thank you for your voice.
Thank you, Mags.
thanks for this important poem
Thanks, Vel.
Speechless after my reading of this one.
Thank you, Jeff.
Never thought about it, but it's beautiful and true:
... some of the old traditions
were never destined to become
the new way of being.
Thank you
Thank you.
I love the ways of senses-sentiment-reflections, circling back. So beautiful!!
Thank you, Kyomi.
And now, for whatever reason, I'm somehow envisioning a timeless talk show hosted by RUe McClanahan and BARBara Walters - the RU/BARB Show ... which would be pretty weird, since they've both passed on ... And yes, I rue this comment.
Hahahahahaha
One wonders why/how 'rhubarb' became a synonym for fight/beef/brawl.
Were there altercations in the garden over said veggie?
Well, based on the overwhelming love expressed for rhubarb in these comments, I'm guessing that pro-rhubarb folks are very willing to rumble!
I love rhubarb. I have a rhubarb pie recipe from my mother who is gone now for a quarter of a century. It is just rhubarb, sugar, heavy cream, and the crust. No one else in my family likes it so I have to eat the whole pie by myself. I'm a diabetic but I have an insulin pump.
Dang!!! The dangers of nostalgia!
Great poem. I can taste the deliciousness of that sandwich, grilled with love.
I loathe rhubarb. It's like paint stripper.
One Nan used to make it with quantities of sugar, still astringent enough to make your mouth pucker.
She also cooked 'sweet breads' which sounded like fluffy comfort carbohydrates. The dismay and horror when I found they were animal thymus glands. That Nan was an ace salmon fisher. Big black waders. Her special spot on the river. Jars of preserved salmon lining the walls. Fiercest person I've ever met.
Awesome! Yeah, sweet bread is one of the more misleading names!
Nailed it once again. Some "things' /meanings/ 'OTHER'minterpretations not meant to indure , never mind assign identity meaning.
Thank you, Caren.
Wondering what you really think about this comment SA.
So lovely! I've saved this post so I can copy it (I mean, "honor it" as Octavia Butler would say). Thank you for writing your beautiful words.
Thank you, Amy.
I hate rhubarb! When I was a kid in the late 80s, there was a commercial for a herbicide that killed velvet leaf. The ad showed a sinister-looking vine crawling through windows. Around this time, I leaned rhubarb leaves were poisonous and had a dream that married this new knowledge with the velvet leaf ad: rhubarb thrust through the floor and grew so tall it lifted the house off the foundation. After that, I wanted nothing to do with it and would cross to the other side of the street if I saw a big rhubarb patch in someone’s yard. Those big veiny leaves nodding malevolently in the breeze horrified me, and the plants that had gone to seed horrified me even more. It didn’t help that my dad picked a stalk and chased me into the house with it. I hid in the closet and when I opened the door, there he was, waving a big green leaf in my face! To this day, I won’t eat it, and have destroyed entire muffins that I thought had rhubarb in them. Having said all that, I miss my grandma too, even though my rhubarb phobia annoyed her.
Your rhubarb PTSD is real!
Been a fan of your prose for a long time. Now beginning to enjoy your poetry.
Thank you, Gary.
Sitting at the table top with gram. Those are the best memories. Poor little Sherman, I can imagine all that vividly. Both my grandmothers were good to me, I'm glad yours was too. White ppl not so much. And that's where we differ. Growing up, Indians were always a refuge. I don't think I could have survived without it. This poem is now bringing me back to violent assimilation practices. I was forced to sit at the kitchen table for hours because I couldn't stomach beets. With a very real threat of violence. First I was loved and free, a happy chatty little girl. Then I was taken away and had to endure physical and emotional torture. The academics are now coming up with definitions for all this. They came up with the term psychological torture. And I can vouch that it is a good and accurate term. And is why I have a passionate hate for #Pretendians. That scary hate is because I have an authentic need to see real Indians not just in acadamia, but more importantly, in the arts. It's also why I have a hard time forgiving Karens. And so I will leave that to someone else. Cheers.