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“I loved rhubarb, that hardy, underappreciated garden survivor that leafed out just as the worst of winter melted away. Not everyone was a fan, especially of the bitter, mushy, overcooked version. Yet sometimes a little bitterness could bring out the best in other flavors. Bitter rhubarb made sunny-day strawberry face the realities of life- and taste all the better for it. As I brushed the cakes with a deep pink glaze made from sweet strawberry and bottled rhubarb bitters, I hoped I would change rhubarb doubters. Certainly, the little Bundt cakes looked as irresistible as anything I had ever seen in a French patisserie.”
― Judith Fertig, The Memory of Lemon

“Our landlord, Mr. Duggan, ran a nearby saloon. He got in trouble with Father for helping himself to the rhubarb which we were growing in the garden. I remember the grey summer dusk in which this happened. We were at the supper table, when the bended Mr. Duggan was observed, like some whale in the sea of green rhubarb, plucking up the red stalks. Father rose to his feet and hastened out into the garden. I could hear indignant words. We sat at the supper table, silent, not eating, and when Father returned I began to question him, and to endeavour to work out the morality of the situation. And I still remember it as having struck me as a difficult case, with much to be said on both sides. In fact, I had assumed that if the landlord felt like it, he could simply come and harvest all our vegetables, and there was nothing we could do about it. I mention this with the full consciousness that someone will use it against me, and say that the real reason I became a monk in later years was that I had the mentality of a medieval serf when I was barely out of the cradle.”
― Thomas Merton

“We used to have rhubarb," Olivia said. "I mean, not like you've got rhubarb... Our mother used to warn us about the leaves."
She remembered how she used to pretend they were fuzzy green elephant ears. Every year she used to pull up a stalk and snap it in two and force herself to take a great bite, even though she knew it would screw her tongue and cheeks into knots and tweak her salivary glands until water rushed in her mouth. She felt a rush of water now, just remembering, and had to swallow.
"Used to make strawberry-rhubarb pie," Mrs. Kilkenny said, "and rhubarb-apricot jam, and sour cream rhubarb cake.”
― Susan Gilbert-Collins, Starting from Scratch

“Our take on a rhubarb and custard," Susan announces. "Rhubarb sorbet on the bottom, topped with whipped custard and a candied rhubarb sweet."
It's served in small egg-shaped glasses, so you can see the layers: bright pink sorbet on the bottom, rich lemon-yellow custard, whipped to airy delicacy, topped with a wafer-thin, jewel-like disc of rhubarb that's been roasted, pressed flat, and encased in rhubarb-flavored praline.
The chef takes two bites of it, then sits back, sighs, and looks at his plate for a while. Susan feels like melting into the floor. He hates it! What went wrong? Is it too simple? She worried about that. Maybe she should have done a tart or a mille-feuille.
"This tastes of summer," the chef says at last. "Every bit of it is delightful and delicious- it's so light and airy and enjoyable."
"I totally agree," says the presenter. "It's the perfect follow-up to something as heavy as those ribs, and the flavors remind me of rhubarb and custard sweets, which really takes me back."
"Yeah, me too." The blogger nods. "Raiding the sweet shop after school.”
― Brianne Moore, All Stirred Up

“And a moment later he was telling me how one could sicken a man just by feeding him rhubarb and spinach at the same sitting, sicken him even to death if the portions were sufficient, and never set a bit of poison on the table at all.”
― Robin Hobb, Assassin's Apprentice

“She could no more escape the conviction that rhubarb was a herb of all the virtues than the modern generation can avoid the illusion that Lady Chatterley's Lover is great literature.”
― Adrian Bell, A Countryman's Spring Notebook