Rhubarb was always the first herald of summer in my childhood home. My mother had an unkillable plant in the northeast corner of her garden that died back every November, resurrected every April, and got broader and leafier every May. The leaves were poisonous, of course, but the bitter, red stalks were precious because they signaled my favorite season of the year: kuchen season.
Kuchen is a German word that just means "cake." There are plenty of kuchens, as there are plenty of cakes. But to me, there is only one kuchen. Rhubarb kuchen. And "cake" doesn't come close to describing this dish.
In a rectangle dish, a bottom layer of crumbly crust gets topped with a luxurious, creamy custard that cradles chunks of soft, fresh rhubarb. If you know what's good for you, don't even talk to me about strawberries. This kuchen ain't got 'em and doesn't need 'em.
I thought this was my grandmother's kuchen until I started writing this piece and asked my mother to send me the recipe — she told me it was from Shirley, my childhood next door neighbor, who got it from her German mother, Lillian.
Shirley was pretty much my de facto grandmother, so I'd say I was close. In addition to rhubarb kuchen, she and her husband, who we called Grandpa Dave, made sure we got grandkid perks like Big Red cream soda, homemade soups and backyard baseball lessons.
But, back to kuchen. At the first farmers market of the season, I grab a bundle of rhubarb and decide to start kuchen season off right. This is my first time making it alone in my new city, but the recipe starts simple enough — for the crust, cream together sugar, butter and an egg yolk, then add flour. "Moisten like pie crust, but use milk," it says.
I like that it assumes I know how to moisten pie crust, until I realize I don't. But I add a tiny bit of milk until I've got something like crumbly sand.
I whisk sugar, milk, eggs and vanilla together for the custard. My mom always went heavy on the rhubarb, so I go heavy on the rhubarb, too. Then I stick the kuchen in the oven, and the familiar childish impatience sets in.
Suddenly, that smell of custard and rhubarb pours into the kitchen. That's it. That's what I've been aching for. That's all it takes to transition from a moody, temperamental spring to a committed, unabashed summer. It's like sunshine bitch-slapped me into a kiddie pool of flip-flops and fresh-cut grass. I don't even need to taste it to feel that relief. But obviously, I'm going to.
The kuchen is best when it's cooled, but that never stopped me and my mom. I dip a fork into the pan and dig up a big scoop of warm butter, sugar and rhubarb. Welcome to kuchen season. ♦
