When we bought our house we got a great neighborhood full of nice, kind neighbors. Our next door neighbors are the original owners of their house, and they moved into the house in 1968. They are now in their 70s and couldn't be more adorable. They've had us over to their house for a "tour" and it cracked me and Craig up to no end. As you can imagine, their house is still very much in 1968 but what killed me were little touches here and there like the old-timey life preserver being used a kitchen chair cushion (the kind I grew up using when my family would go fishing in Vermont in the summer - with the ropey armholes and square cushion that looks like you might wear it as a backpack but it's really a frontpack because if you put it on your back, you would be floating face down. Duh.) We were shown all their artifacts, which included prized crocheted table cloths and bedspreads, army medals, and a collection of angel statues. We were shown every nook in the house, including their bedroom and bathroom. In their little den are two recliners, side by side, and one had a big bag of Lay's potato chips in it, which put me over the limit on how sweet two people can be. When I'm 70, you can be sure I too will plow through a bag of potato chips each night. They used to garden pretty heavily, but the only vestige left over is a plethora of rhubarb which we are now the recipients of on a regular basis, and let me tell you, there's not much you can do with rhubarb. We're going to try a bread recipe this time. Evidently, rhubarb grows easily and plentifully from May through September, causing the world (me) to wish things like strawberries or broccoli or pineapple grew so readily and for so long, with so little work. The other prob with rhubarb is that even if you find a great recipe, it usually only calls for two cups maximum of the stuff, which is like 1/16 of what you yield each week.
Also, I wrote this entire post originally calling rhubarb "rutabaga", a horse of a completely different color.
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