KarateParty.org - Rhubarb: A Tale

Few things in life are as important as eating well, and even more important is eating deliciously well. Sure, it’s nice to be healthy, but not if it means eating raw broccoli and eggs mixed with tuna. No, we need to focus on the tasty, and nothing is more freakishly tasty that Rhubarb, a vegetable that is both red, and green, but not a tomato. Remember guys, people class the humble tomato as a fruit, and by people I mean people I know.

This work will be ongoing, over the next while Karate Party will seek to make a definitive resource for Rhubarb lovers everywhere. To sate your appetite I have written a heart-warming story to remind you of the virtue of the Rhubarb.

Introduction

The wind blew in the poorly shuttered window, a cold artic blast that seemed to have come straight from Siberia, Franz shivered angrily “to think, life has come to this!” he muttered angrily. A snort of laughter came from Mishka “Don’t make me sick! You had the chance to make our lives better, and you threw it all away!” Franz knew this to be true, which is why he couldn’t look Mishka in the eye. He thought back to that hot summer day, when the a stranger offered him the gift of life.

1 Sunlight in the Face

A warm, pleasant glow surrounded Franz, he felt as if he was floating in a pink bubble of contentment. Food was plentiful, he had a full pipe of tobacco, and the winter was far away. Gradually he became aware of an approaching whistle, the tune was uncertain, but it was cheerful.

Presently a man came up to Franz, his kindly eyes smiling down at the lazy Franz, who was lying on the grass when the fields needed tending.

“Tell me my friend” the Man began “Have you heard the good word of the Rhubarb? To this rather odd opening statement Franz was rather dumfounded and responded in the only way he knew how “Rag off, you weirdo, you are in my sun!”

With a sad smile the Man started to walk off, his good news not welcome here. But being a man filled with compassion he thought to give Franz one more chance, and came back to where the lazy Franz lay down. “Friend, I won’t trouble you any longer, but let me leave you with this photo of the humble Rhubarb, I think you will change your mind”

He pressed a large, glossy photo into Franz’s sun warmed hands, and walked off into the summer sun. Some hours later, Franz, now burnt by over exposure to the sun deigned to leave his resting place, in search of a good meal. In passing he jammed the photo into his pocket.

Later that night after a satisfying meal of Pork Broth, served in a bowl fashioned of dense potato bread, Franz put his hand into his pocket scratching his itchy leg. Instead of satisfaction he found instead the now slightly crumpled photo. Looking across at Mishka he smiled, pork grease making his face almost glow with satisfaction. “Some chump tried to talk to me about something called Rhubarb today while I was working in the field’ he said, hoping that Mishka hadn’t ventured outside. “I’ve got no patience for time wasters, or traveling salesmen, not when there is good work to be done”

Mishka did not respond to this obviously false declaration, he appeared transfixed by the now unfolded photo. It was beautiful, the picture, it showed a wondrous leafy plant; with greenery so green, it would make even one of the Great Apes of Uganda cry in wonder! But, just like the eyes of a much-loved dog, there were hidden depths to the picture that only became revealed when the watcher surrenders himself to its depths. Lo! Peeking out from beneath the leafy goodness lay a deep red stalk; the red almost glowed with good health and the promise of a delicious meal. Mishka was temporarily unable to speak, so caught up in the glory of the Rhubarb. Eventually he managed to find his voice, and in an emotionally choked gasp he whispered to Franz “ I have never seen such glory, such beauty as I have seen in that sweet vegetable. I look upon its leafy visage and I see the promise of complete and utter satisfaction. I see myself eating its blood red stalks, their red juice all over my face, as I mash its goodness into my unworthy mouth! I have seen the face of God, and it is tasty”

Franz looked at Mishka with something approaching shocked disbelief. “We have a cubit of grain, 600 potatoes and two fat pigs, Charles and Henry, Winter looks like it will be a fine, fat time for us both! Forget your stupid green and red vegetables, its pork and potatoes my friend, all winter long!"

It quickly became apparent to Mishka that while he was undoubtedly in the right with his new found love of rhubarb, it was hard to maintain his position when all he had was a glossy photo. Especially when two well fed pigs lay mere metres away, surrounded by fat sacks of grain and potatoes. Franz grinned in triumph at the defeated body language of Mishka. No more would there be arguments over the merits of glistening pork chops and the buried treasure of rhubarb crumble. It is hard to retain faith when all one has as evidence is a scrap of paper. It is the nature of man to require solid, hard proof, and upon that sharp, snaggle-toothed rock Mishka foundered.

2 Later that Winter

A crash rang out, followed by drunken laughter. Franz jerked awake, ripped from his pleasant dreams about Spain in the summer. He jumped up from his cot, which he cheekily referred to as a bed to those unfortunates who ended up visiting the shack of Mishka and Franz. Running to the door he saw unsteady figures lurching away, the clink of nearly empty bottles matching their drunken gait. His thoughts of chasing them were rudely interrupted, when he heard a scream of rage, no doubt from Mishka.

“WHERE ARE THE PIGS?!” Mishka screamed at Franz as he ran towards the outhouse. "Our precious pigs have escaped!" moaned Mishka. Franz looked desolated. Their pigs, the protein banks that all their hopes had been invested in were gone. It could not have come at a worse time, just the day before he had traded all their potatoes and grain to a fast talking man, he had driven a hard bargain though. Next winter, Mishka and he would spend 3 weeks in sunny Odessa, the Paris of the Black Sea. Well, according to the now insubstantial looking travel brochures he had secreted next to his pigskin wallet.

3 The Next Week

“Do you know what the nutritional value of a seaside holiday is when you are dead, Franz?’ asked Mishka with what can only be described as biting sarcasm. (Although given the hunger of the two protagonists it might be in poor taste.) Franz chose not to answer that clearly loaded question, so the room lapsed back into a hungry silence, broken only by the sound of rumbling stomachs and developing scurvy.

“I could eat a horse,” announced Franz an hour or so later, a statement unlikely ever to be tested, but a great testament to his hunger. Mishka replied “I don’t doubt your hunger, but try chewing the tough meat without your teeth, then tell me how satisfied you are. I hope you like horse broth!

With that witticism now delivered, they both lapsed into silence. Things looked grim, short bouts of ill humour, followed by long periods of starving, starving and the relentless loosening of teeth. Mishka started crying softly, to think, life would end this way, there was still so much to do. A single drop landed on a crumpled photo, its picture unseen. One more ruined memory, one more tragic waste.

4 Deliverance Comes

Grim yes, but not without hope. A stranger came in the night, a welcome stranger. One with the will and the means to bring succor to the scurvied masses, well by that I mean Mishka and Franz. The rhubarb man returned, he had known that people would need his aid, even those who spurned it in the past. He did not judge these people, he just spread the word, and taste of rhubarb to their needful palates. How he knew to come, I cannot tell you, but it is enough that he came, a helping hand is always welcome.

With skillful hands he fed and nursed the two invalids. Stewed rhubarb for sustenance, rhubarb tea for rehydration. Slowly they were restored, but better, stronger, more human. The much creased photo of the Rhubarb now sat in pride of place, the mantle, underneath the photo of Elvis. They had learnt that although they spurned the gift of life once, Rhubarb did not spurn them when their hour of need came.

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