I have strawberry stories. I lived next door to a strawberry field, but only temporarily, not forever. I have written before about working at and attending the Plant City, Fla., Strawberry Festival.

I have rhubarb stories. The first time I heard the word was in a baseball context, so when I found out it was a plant at age 6, I was very confused: Plants, particularly that one, never struck me as particularly argumentative. (I did some Googling but came up with nothing for the origin of this meaning; the consensus seems to be that it was a word extras on stage in the theater would mutter over and over when the scene called for some kind of commotion. Sports Illustrated says a bartender used the term in 1938 to describe a brawl in which a Brooklyn Dodgers fan killed a Giants fan, but doesn’t explain where that guy got it from. Another thing I read said it originated with a writer named Garry Schumacher who got in neighborhood fights involving rhubarb pie that ended messily. Pretty sure Garry’s mom wouldn’t have given him that for ammo that more than once, but what do I know? )

The house we lived in when I was in second through sixth grade had a flower bed and smack in the middle was a big patch of rhubarb that just minded its own business and grew back every year with zero encouragement or attention. After trying it once and deciding it tasted awful, nobody in my family knew what to do with it. But every year a slew of neighbors were more than happy to come filch it out of our yard. I never saw it in California or Florida, so I have always assumed it was a Midwestern thing. I have yet to be disabused of this notion. I have also been waiting to see if it ever takes on a kale-like reputation as a superfood; after all, the Chinese cultivated it for medical use (although to be honest, I don’t know if they ate it or just rubbed it on themselves).

I also don’t know jack about the combination of strawberries and rhubarb. When I started making jelly, one of my brothers-in-law (raised in Indiana, further cementing my Midwestern theory) said that combo was his favorite. To date, he has gone unsatisfied. Still, I’d probably take a stab at making jelly before I tried to make a pie with the stuff. It doesn’t look attractive to me. All that red squish looks like a Final Destination movie to me. The hubs doesn’t like it, and the kid, like me, would not eat it on a bet.

Anyone care to ally themselves with my BiL and sing its praises?