I found the recipe years ago in a weekend newspaper, folded between the gardening pages and the travel lift-out. I didn’t know then that it would become part of the fabric of our life together. I clipped it, tucked it away, and soon it was bubbling in my own oven.
The recipe is simple: 500g of strawberries, 500g of rhubarb, four tablespoons of honey, and a teaspoon of vanilla essence. The fruit softens and surrenders in the heat, the honey binding them in a sweet-sharp embrace. Served warm with vanilla ice cream, it is a dessert that glows with colour and comfort. The next morning, any leftovers can be quietly used at breakfast—no less delicious, perhaps even better for having waited overnight.
The first time I cooked it was for my wife. She loved it then, and she loves it still. All these years later, I am careful not to make it too often, knowing that part of its magic lies in being anticipated, not taken for granted. Guests at our table, family around the dining room, each has tasted it, each has asked for more.
I love rhubarb so much that I’ll order it at any restaurant that offers it. And yet, nothing I have been served has ever matched this simple crumble. It is not just the fruit or the honey—it’s the memory of that first time, the countless meals since, and the small tradition it has become.
This recipe is my favourite not because it is perfect, but because it has made our life together taste a little sweeter.
The Afterword 
Leave a comment