I left work early today, and my grandpa met me at the train station so that we could pick rhubarb. While we drove over to his farm, which is very close to the train, we talked about the Mets game I'd seen yesterday (I'm a lifelong Yankees fan, but I will happily admit that was a truly inspiring 9th inning yesterday!), and baseball games he went to when he grew up in Quincy, Mass. Then we went out to the field and picked tons and tons of rhubarb. As always, he tried to get me to take a bite of one of the stalks, which I didn't fall for. Rhubarb with strawberries and lots of sugar in a pie is wonderful. Raw rhubarb is...bitter.
Their lilacs are all blooming, so I also picked some of those, and a bit of arugula. What inspired this blogpost is that I just yawning and rubbing my forehead and I smelled the rhubarb and lilac on my fingers still. That's what spring always smells like to me, a sharp mixture of both tangled together.