Rhubarb Cordial

The forced rhubarb turns up in the middle of winter, which is the first kind thing January does. Slender, almost luminous pink stalks, grown in the dark sheds of Yorkshire and harvested by candlelight. It's a ridiculous piece of agriculture and I'm glad it exists.

I bought a bundle on Saturday and didn't know what I wanted to do with it until I was walking home. Then I did. Cordial. A quiet pink syrup to keep in the fridge for the next few weeks, ready for a glass of cold water on a bright afternoon when the garden is finally starting to think about waking up. We're only making dinner, and dinner sometimes wants a drink beside it.

This is the simplest thing. Rhubarb, sugar, a lemon, some water. Simmer it gently until the stalks collapse and give up their colour, strain it through muslin, bottle it. You're done in under an hour and you've got something the colour of stained glass that tastes like the edge of spring every time you pour a splash into a cold tumbler.

I wrote it down in the notebook the first time I made it. 'Rhubarb. Pink. March. Worth it.' That was the whole entry. Some things don't need more than that.