Rhubarb and Custard

There's a short stretch of the year, roughly January to March, when forced rhubarb arrives from the Yorkshire Triangle and the dark months suddenly have a reason. The stalks are an improbable pink, almost fluorescent, grown in blacked-out sheds by candlelight so they grow fast and tender and reach for any bit of warmth they can find. I've seen them pulled from the shed in person once, and the sound they make, a small squeaking creak in the dark, is something I've never forgotten.

This is a January pudding. A February one too. You want it on an evening when the rain is sideways and the heating has been on since morning and you need something sharp and bright to remind you that spring is, in fact, happening somewhere. The rhubarb goes into a shallow dish with sugar and a strip of orange peel and almost no water, then into the oven just long enough to soften without collapsing. The custard is made slowly on the hob, vanilla pod, yolks, milk and cream, stirred with a wooden spoon until it coats the back of it. No powder. No shortcut. We're only making dinner, but some dinners deserve the proper thing.

I wrote it down in the notebook years ago: "Rhubarb. Pink. The first of the year. A good evening." I still think about that bowl. Serve it in shallow dishes so you can see the pink against the pale yellow. Don't be shy with the custard. There are few better feelings than putting a warm bowl of this in front of someone on a cold night and watching their shoulders drop half an inch.