Rhabarberstrudel (Rhubarb Strudel)

Rhubarb is how you know winter is over in Austria. It comes up in April, those thick pink and green stalks pushing out of the ground like they're in a hurry, and the first thing any Austrian baker worth her apron does is make Rhabarberstrudel. Not apple strudel. That's for autumn. Rhubarb strudel is the spring one, and it's been that way in my kitchen for as long as I've had a kitchen.

I remember Gretel pulling rhubarb from a neighbor's garden in Kent, thick stalks that turned her fingers pink, and saying: this is how you know it's time to start baking again. Eva would already have the flour out. The dough for strudel is the same dough every time, just four ingredients, and Gretel could stretch it in her sleep by the time I knew her. I'd watch the two of them work the edges thinner and thinner until the dough looked like it might disappear entirely, and then they'd load it up with whatever was in season. In spring, it was always rhubarb first.

What makes rhubarb work so well inside strudel dough is its sharpness. The filling doesn't need much: sugar, Vanillezucker, a little lemon zest, a breath of cinnamon. The rhubarb brings the tartness that cuts through the butter and the pastry. When you eat a warm slice with cold Schlagobers, you get that beautiful push and pull between sweet, sour, crisp, and cool. It's simple food, done well. That's Austrian cooking at its best.

The strudel dough itself is the only technique here that asks for practice. Flour, water, oil, a splash of vinegar, ten minutes of proper kneading, and a good rest. Then you stretch it by hand until it's transparent. I won't pretend it's easy the first time. But it is learnable, and once your hands understand what the dough wants, you'll be stretching strudel for the rest of your life.