Man, I could tell rhubarb stories the likes of which would horrify most youngsters well into their Grand Theft Auto years. Pulling the fully-ripened rhubarb from the ground, just so, while grandad watches, pipe clenched between his perfect false-choppers (which he'd occasionally pull out and chase me and my sister around with); heading off toward the woods at the end of Mount Pleasant Drive to find the blackberries for grandma's blackberry and apple pie whilst simultaneously keeping an eye out for brownies, trolls, and other magical woodland folk my parents assured me where there; being on "custard duty" once I was tall enough to stand over the stove and watch for boilovers, whilst Grandma lovingly produces the finished, steaming pie from the oven...
Switch 10 years later to me sweating my knuts off cooking enchiladas and "death by jalapeno" burgers in a dirty, oily, 150 degree kitchen in San Antonio, Texas with a large, hairy biker called Steve listed in the phone book as "No Body". It's a funny old life, innit.
