As a child, I knew that rhubarb came from South Dakota.
After all, the south side of every farm's garage sprouted a ruffled border of broad and crinkled leaves. Every Memorial Day picnic ended with latticed wedges of rhubarb pie. Over the winter, the aunts and uncles sipped rhubarb wine from last year's crop while Grandma put the finishing touches on Sunday dinner.
In spring, rhubarb was as commonplace as lilacs. Desserts varied among rhubarb sauce, rhubarb crisp, rhubarb cobbler or rhubarb pie.
If Mom felt like fussing, we'd have rhubarb swirls. She'd pat a batch of Bisquick dough into a rectangle, cover it with chopped rhubarb, then roll it like a jellyroll. Inch-thick slices were laid into a 13-by-9 pan so you could see the swirls. Finally, she'd pour hot sugar syrup over the whole thing and bake it until the dough was golden and crackly and the rhubarb had melted into a gooey jam.
Drizzled with cream skimmed from the milk jar, it was a dessert that I was certain could not have existed in any other state, because my mom only lived in South Dakota.
It is good that we grow up, of course, even as it causes us to put aside our childhood certainties.
Crossing borders, I learned that rhubarb existed in Minnesota, Iowa and Wisconsin. I surmised that even North Dakota garages likely sported their own ruffled borders.
Perhaps the world was full of rhubarb.