Pretty in pink

Only available for a fleeting moment, rose-hued forced rhubarb–grown in the dark and harvested by candlelight in Yorkshire’s ‘tusky triangle’–is an ephemeral vegetable with a muted, yet distinct, lip-smacking tartness.

- Tom Parker Bowles

NO rhubarb was harmed in the writing of this column. Nor were there any whispers of blackmail, coercion or intimidation of any kind. Those elegant pink stems may be forced, but they’re here, I promise, of their own free will. This is a relief, as forced rhubarb, which disappears in a few weeks’ time, is one of March’s rare seasonal treats. Sure, wild garlic is starting to peep through and English chicory, too, but this is a cusp month that sits, slightly awkwardly, between the last, aged fumble of winter and spring’s lusty thrust.

Still, there’s much to relish in this rhubarb, with its tender limbs and sweet, just sharp allure. Although delicate in appearance, its accent is broad Yorkshire, thicker than black treacle and more bluff than a Boycott ’ow do. Because here, in a nine square mile area of West Yorkshire, between Wakefield, Morley and Rothwell, lies the ‘tusky (or rhubarb) triangle’, the place where it all begins.