Arroz con Leche with Roasted Rhubarb
My parents live on the east side of Denver. Five miles from the step on the Capitol building that reads “One Mile Above Sea Level.” Just where, if you keep going east, you won’t hit another bump in the landscape until North Carolina. It’s a spot that might seem geographically unremarkable, if it weren’t for my father’s rhubarb. This plant, with its ruddy stocks and big, leathery leaves, is the only one in the garden that’s capable of defying the seasons. It shoots up early, despite mid-May snowstorms, and continues to grow, throughout the dry, dusty summer.
The plant’s unwavering durability, I imagine, is why it has become such a fixture in our family kitchen. From spring to summer, there is rhubarb—no matter how many times we accidentally sideswipe the bushy plant with the lawnmower or cut it back to make crumbly, rhubarb cake.
For the cooks in the family—my mother, sister, and myself—this steady ingredient supply has allowed each of us to develop a signature rhubarb recipe. My sister, Anna, has fearlessly claimed the pie. She usually starts her pastry making in early summer for my dad’s solstice birthday. She blends ice water and flour into doughy crust, chops cups of rhubarb (until her fingers turn red), and bakes it all into a tart, custardy pie. Mom, in turn, experiments with muffin recipes. Zucchini bran. Oatmeal raisin. Prune sour cream. I think it might have been that last one, with its crunchy strudel topping that inspired her rhubarb muffins. The cakey rounds are studded with soft squares of rhubarb and topped with a crispy mix of butter, flour, and brown sugar.
Over the years, I’ve experimented with various rhubarb recipes, looking for my own, sugary way to take advantage of our backyard’s anchor plant. I tried rhubarb cake, using the recipe of a good friend. My co-workers liked the sweet, dense cake, which curved around rosy dices of rhubarb. I thought it tasted like coffee cake. Which meant it wasn’t distinct enough for my signature recipe. Then, I took up strawberry-rhubarb jelly and jam. The former, I made for my dad’s 54th birthday. The latter, I made for a friend’s wedding. Both experiences ended with subtlety sweet, fruity spreads—and burns down my forearms. Canning is no easy job. Hot glass + hot ovens + hot water = danger even oven mitts can’t overcome. I love rhubarb spreads, but they are too precarious for my defining dish.
Luckily, though, this spring I happened upon a recipe for rice pudding with broiled plums. And even more luckily, it was May, and there wasn’t a plum in sight. But there was plenty of rhubarb, sprouting in my parents’ yard—and lining the shelves of Whole Foods. So I began to practice. I made cinnamon-scented rice pudding, thinking of the all the puddings I ate for dessert when I worked in Spain and Peru. I roasted rhubarb and added vanilla. Then, I tried it with orange rind. I decided I liked basmati better than Arborio rice. (The Italian version made a rustic, heavy porridge, where the Asian grain made a lighter, firmer pudding.) I ditched the vanilla. It was too perfume-y for the orange zest (and juice) I tossed with my rhubarb. And finally, I ended with a recipe that was just right for finishing a dinner party hosted around my coffee table.
This arroz con leche recipe balances the sugary sweetness of rice pudding with the acidic touches of rhubarb. And it brightens both with citrusy orange. Serve this recipe warm on a cool, spring day, and it will soften the rainy gloom. Or save it until summer and spoon chilled rhubarb over room temperature pudding to temper the heat. Or if you have a reliable rhubarb plant like my father’s, try both.
