My rhubarb life is spinning out of control this morning. I blame my present chaos on the recent mild winter. This is not the first time the Winter of 2012 has invaded my personal space. Last week, I renamed March and April as Marpril, thanks to the great Early Spring Weather Flip Flop of 2012. Blissfully ignorant of nature’s wiles, I also suggested Maypril as a new name for April and May if the weather hijinks continued, never expecting to put it to use already. But today, the announcement must be made.
Maypril is here!
How do I know? Because it’s time to pick the rhubarb. All last week, before leaving for the Accessibility Summit in the Washington, DC area, I denied the truth. Over and over, I told myself it was still Marpril and nobody in this part of the country picks rhubarb in Marpril. Picking the rhubarb in Marpril would weaken it. Kill it even.
I didn’t want rhubarbacide on my rap sheet.
But when I returned from the Summit (more on that trip tomorrow), the rhubarb – egged on by the Winter of 2012 and the great Early Spring Weather Flip Flop of 2012 – threw it’s version of a tantrum, determined to gain my attention. The rhubarb sent up seed pods. Unheard of in March, April, or Marpril. But common in May. Except May is two weeks away.
Which means it’s Maypril.
So this morning, though my desk is covered with business expense receipts to file and record, though trips to the grocery store and bank are in order, though my inbox is overflowing with emails to answer, though the dirty laundry pile grows as unpacking progresses, though there’s cooking and baking to do…I’m hacking off seedpods and picking rhubarb. Because my mama always sent me out to cut off those seed pods and pick the rhubarb so it would keep producing until the weather turned hot and dry. But the seedpods never sprouted in April. Always in May.
Which means its Maypril. The month when life spins out of control.
Or will feel out of control until my desk is cleared off, the errands are run, the emails are answered, the laundry’s done, the get basic cooking and baking is finished, and there’s time to make a rhubarb-strawberry crisp. Then maybe I’ll like Maypril as much as I liked May evenings when my mom served rhubarb crisp for desserts, when my dad winked and said, “Maybe you better not eat that, Jo-Jo. Maybe you better give it to me so I can see if your piece is as good as mine was,” when my brother and sister and I giggled because it was rhubarb season, and our parents were happy.
Then, I’ll welcome Maypril.
