My earliest memories of rhubarb aren’t memories at all; they’re stories recounted to me as though I were both there and absent, flashes of short scenes I’ve witnessed only in photos. Like posters for movies I’ve seen in my sleep. I was three or four, visiting family in upstate New York, the ones with the pet raccoons kept in cages in the living room (and I’m pretty sure that that’s actually true). My aunt or cousin’s wife or great uncle’s wife’s niece or whoever it was, she was making strawberry rhubarb pie, and I sat on the counter with a giant bowl of the filling, stuffing it into my chubby face. Eating it by the spoonful, bangs just a little too short from the homemade haircut the aunt or cousin’s wife or great uncle’s wife’s niece had given me earlier that day. I always loved rhubarb, or so I’m told, but it took a while for me to tackle the ingredient on my own, to muster up the courage to replace this half-memory in my mind with something doubly real and potentially disappointing. I have this sort of anomalous aversion to celery, which you’ll notice on the blog, now that I’ve told you to look. And rhubarb, it just looks too much like celery, doesn’t it? Its stringy stalks and sterile edges, seeing them only trimmed and stemmed in the grocery store in this part of the country, missing the bushes in the backyard, the fresh bundles at the farmer’s market. And so, delicate memory in mind, looking a bit too much like my hated celery stalks, and, quite frankly, not having a damn clue what to really do with it, I’ve tended to avoid it even when confronted by bins of the fresh stuff at the grocery store; even when peeking at bags of trimmed slices of it, frozen next to the organic wild blueberries. But, have you noticed? The Internet is in love with the pink stalks, and, I’ve been positively immersed in gorgeous, creative concoctions presented by the painfully talented food bloggers surrounding me. From teacakes to crumbles to one-pan chicken dishes, rhubarb is all around. And so, on a recent trip to Sprouts, I grabbed several stalks, not having a clue what to do with them or what I even wanted to do with them. But as I perused rhubarb’s corner of the Internet, inspiration hit quickly. I fell in love with the stunning, rectangular tarts and decided to create a paleo version of the classical dish. I wanted to pair a crumbly, buttery shortbread crust with a rich and heady frangiapane (sweet almond) filling, finished with a sweetened rhubarb topping. Each layer comes together easily, the bottom two whirring together in seconds in a food processor. The rhubarb topping is just as simple, simmering segments of the stalks in diluted maple syrup, cooled, and placed on the filled tart. Stunning, a tiny bit tart, and so rich, this paleo rhubarb tart is surprisingly delicious. And it’s true: I do love rhubarb. Those stories that were told to me, you know, every two years or so for the last twenty were right. I love the tart stalks and their neon hue; I love the fruity taste and the sheer weirdness of it all. I love the elegance of the slices, arranged in funky patterns. Maybe its an inherent love for rhubarb that’s lain dormant all these years, and maybe it’s these artificial memories that this dish shocks to life, but this paleo rhubarb tart might just be one of my favorite dishes I’ve made in the last year. You’ll love the buttery shortbread crust, the easy and rich frangiapane filling, and the sweet, tart rhubarb. It’s easy to put together but is so delicious and stunning. And you can make this paleo rhubarb tart a few hours ahead, making it perfect for summer entertaining. Go grab some stalks today, and take advantage of rhubarb season!
More Incredible Summer Treats
Paleo Flag Fruit Tart (Vegan Option)Pineapple SmoothieFrozen Yogurt-Covered GrapesEasy Watermelon Juice Recipe (No Juicer!)POG JuiceStrawberry Goat Cheese Salad with Balsamic VinaigretteEasy 7 Layer Salad with Homemade DressingGrilled Mango with Chili-Lime Salt
