I thought you might like to know about a fantastic eccentric British group called Stackridge, whose fans bring sticks of rhubarb along to gigs and thrash each other with them. The fans are known as “Thrashers”.

Now strangely enough I produce a monthly podcast on their behalf called Lummy Days which not only features a mix of eclectic music but also has more than the occasional reference to Rhubarb

The latest edition can be found here

Hope you get round to having a listen

Sam - In the days before YouTube I searched long and hard for such gems - because it mattered - and got there. Mr Benn had a profound influence on me, and like Briars with Roobarb who can’t hear the voice of Bernard Cribbins when picturing the Wombles?

Primal - Our rhubarb grew in our compost heap. It was a big heap. I too have never tasted better.

Doc - I suspect like beer consumption that rhubarb eating goes som e way to defining the quality of a person. Only 3 paintings of Grainger have I managed to track down.

Medbh - It’s great that we just don’t have an explanation for some things. When I was in England a few months back somebody bought me a 4-pack. Of Yogurts. One each of prune, fig, cranberry and rhubarb. Spot the common link.

every august i spent a month on the place. i preferred to meander about bareback on Ben, one of the rather tame draft horses that dotted the farm (you would find them, quitely munching hay or simply flicking flies with their tails, in the oddest places), but there are an amazing number of chores that an eight year old can accomplish on a farm, most of them seemingly designed to wear his young ass out.

my favourite was rhubarb patrol. it wasn’t a cash crop on the farm - it grew wild in the roadside ditches. but my grandfather had a wicked taste for it so I would sit Ben and find as much as ran along his property lines. later i would retun on my bike with a sack and collect it. my grandmother would have already had the bottom crust spread out and tamped down in a pie tin, strawberries reducing in water atop the old wood fed, cast iron stove; once cleaned and chopped, the rhubarb was added. merged just right, the innards were spilled onto the tin and covered with the chicken tracked top crust and slid into the oven.

a late dinner, the sun going down, while grandad listened to the grain and hog reports on the AM. then, with the stars as clear as my conscience, the pie would be done, a slice slid onto my plate, topped with fresh made ice cream…

weren’t they the days though?

when i was ten i discovered ditch weed. which, in turn, really, enhanced the flavor of those strawberry/rhubarb pies, as well as gave a different tone to my summer days. i would guess, judging from his paintings, that perhaps Grainger was also a fan of ditchweed but saw to reason limn it…

i mean, good rhubarb grows everywhere - not so ditchweed…

Am I talking shite here?

And you deserve a good blessing for pointing us towards the Rhubarb Compendium as well.

I love this post!