Day 155: Last summer, one of my Park friends asked me if I wanted some rhubarb roots after presenting me with a jar of rhubarb jam. I said yes, and she brought down one enormous clump in a box just as we were about to enter a spell of hot weather. I sectioned the root mass into two parts with skill and precision, which is to say I took a sharp-bladed shovel to the middle of it on the premise that if one half died, the other would probably survive, and bedded them in behind the house, lavishly watered. It took a few days before something sidetracked me and I forgot completely about their needs in time of stress, and the next time I looked at them (maybe two weeks later), they were in a sad state. This is typical of my gardening. I plant it, and if it survives my lackadaisical caregiving, it's all well and good. If it dies, I plant something different. Rhubarb is tough stuff, hard to kill even when you try. Both roots survived, and are now putting up stems and leaves. Hopefully, they'll do double duty, serving both as ingredients for pie and jam as well as shading out a few survivors of my ministrations which I wish I hadn't planted in the first place.
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