Will this rhubarb tart bring me eternal happiness then? (I did make three just in case)

not yet cooked but already delicious-looking

I'm not sure if now is the right time to write about rhubarb. It is in season, sure. And it's as beautiful as ever, bright pink as pink as pink candy canes and as sour and sharp as Dorothy Parker.

But Easter is over. The whole long weekend whistled down the wind. I'm clean out of chocolate and still no sign of the Messiah.

I am hoping that writing about rhubarb will return some cheer to an otherwise gloomy reality.

Rhubarb picking was not one of the favourite jobs in my family home. It was one of the least favourite jobs, because one knew while picking that the rhubarb would be baked in a crumble and eaten every Sunday for the foreseeable.

We were too little to know that rhubarb is a right proper treat. When it doesn't grow in one's own garden, a bundle of those stiff glinting canes is manna from heaven. That's how I feel about them now anyway and wrote about it in The Independent here.

I'm not ashamed to say I never made of the suggested recipes. But the lines from Monty Python's Rhubarb Tart Song must have hung around in my subconscious somewhere because that's just what I found myself making this weekend.

Apparently,

"Eternal happiness is rhubarb tart

A rhubarb what? A rhubarb tart!

A Jean Paul who? A Jean Paul Sartre!

Eternal happiness is rhubarb tart"

I chose Oliver Peyton's Rhubarb and Custard Tart from Observer Food Monthly February 2009.

As he didn't specify a pastry recipe, I decided to borrow from Lucas Hollweg's Blood Orange Tart recipe in The Times, substituting Stork for butter, which was a complete sloppy disaster. It also meant I didn't struggle on with the intention of making mini rhubarb and custard, blood orange and lemon tarts to be sliced up and served reconfigured on the plate as a whole tart of three flavours.

A bit Masterchef yes, and a lot over ambitious and stupid.

The tarts did bring me happiness, though I can't say whether it will be eternal or not. Nonetheless I highly recommend making the effort. Buy in some pastry or stick to your own trusted recipe.

Beautiful Becca seems to be enjoying her's at least

I assisted my friend AC in making this Rhubarb and Ginger Fool last week, also from Hollweg, who I rate very highly. I helped her by zesting a few oranges and sprinkling it onto the tray of rhubarb the night before her dinner. See below.

AC tells me it was a huge success but at the time she was worried the amount of orange going into it was going to overpower the lovely rhubarb. AC does all things properly and cooking is no excuse. She would not be fucking about trying to resurrect sloppy pastry. Uh-uh.

She's also rather amazing and treated me to a posh birthday dinner on Saturday at Marcus Wareing's two Michelin-starred caff at The Berkeley. I love her for many reasons but her ability to chat food with passion, precision and unflinching dedication is high up there.

Her commitment to good food is partly because she is partly French (the hints of Northern European in her are evident in the zeal with which she falls about fried food). I also suspect it was ramped up a notch or seven the time she made a crumble with salt instead of sugar. God that was funny. I wasn't even there and it still makes me titter.

You can read with envy all the luscious nosh we noshed on Sunday here (except the main was venison with the cutest mini beetroots and sour cream) and I'll highlight the Pan fried foie gras, yoghurt, rhubarb muffin top, ginger crunch, thyme cress. Here it is -

Oh how we laughed at the idea we needed extra muffin tops, and would pay top dollar for the privilege. And obviously eating foie gras is several steps beyond my ethical interests. Who's that coughing?

Next week I'm going to make Riverford's Rhubarb & Cardamom Fool, but instead of the fool serve the rhubarb compote with my secret white cheese mousse recipe, which I will un-secret for you. It doesn't sound wildly exciting, but boy, it is.