Ahhhh, childhood memories. My Father was a hothouse rhubarb farmer. I loved the strong smell of Earth in the dank, dark hot houses; Dad had two on a small ten acre farm just outside the city limits of our small town in Washington State. Now and then I would help cut, grade and box this beautiful vegetable. Yes, it's categorized as a vegetable, though it is most often used in the way we use fruit, in desserts, jams, and sauces. Dad would dump a big box of rhubarb onto a large table and Mom, Aunt Glady and I would take one, whack off both ends (the leaves are highly toxic) and decide the grade: fancy, extra fancy, or cull. Mom stood on that hard concrete floor all day while I was at school. I think back on that now and how hard that must have been on her feet and legs, but nary a complaint was heard. Dad tells of breaking off a stem from the root ball and eating it then and there. Pretty acidic little guy for my taste, but Mom made THE BEST rhubarb custard pie you've ever tasted. Mmmmm, memories.
My father was also the foremost hop dryer on this side of the mountains, maybe in the State. Another strong and enjoyable sensory memory is the smell of the hop kiln filled with hop dust you could see in the air as the sun rays filled the room. The floor of the room is slatted and covered with burlap. Dad would take a hop flower in his hands and crush it determining by the scent if it was ready for baling.
Two plants, one red, one green. Very pretty. Very unique. Very important to my childhood.
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