Forced Rhubarb, Buttermilk Snow & Rose Geranium
A quiet Yorkshire pudding, pink as winter light through a forcing shed
Forced rhubarb from the sheds around Wakefield has been coaxed to blush for two centuries — candlelit, coddled, pink as a whisper. This is what happens when you treat it gently: poached in something sweet, reduced to syrup, then met with cold buttermilk sorbet that grates like fresh snow. A pudding for people who know winter isn't cruel, just quiet.
How to Cook It
- 01
Poach the rhubarb
Cut forced rhubarb into 6cm batons. Split the vanilla pod, scrape the seeds into a wide pan with the pod itself, Sauternes, and 50g sugar. Heat gently—do not boil—until steam rises. Slide the rhubarb in and poach for 4–6 minutes, turning once. The stalks should bend slightly but hold their shape; remove to a cold plate immediately.
~12 min - 02
Reduce the liquor
Return the pan (vanilla pod still in) to medium heat. Let the poaching liquid bubble down for 8–10 minutes until syrupy and coral-coloured. You want about 100ml left, glossy and concentrated. Taste: it should be sweet with a faint wine bite. Let it cool completely.
~10 min - 03
Make the buttermilk sorbet
Whisk buttermilk, 50g caster sugar, and 50ml cold water together until the sugar dissolves. Churn in an ice cream machine for 25–30 minutes until it's frozen but still soft. Transfer to a tub and freeze hard—at least 4 hours, or overnight. You want it solid enough to grate.
~30 min - 04
Prepare the ginger cream
Peel and finely grate the fresh ginger. Whip the double cream to soft peaks—it should hold a ribbon but not be stiff. Fold the ginger through gently, tasting as you go. Some people like a whisper; others like a sting. You're after balance.
~5 min - 05
Plate and finish
Warm four serving bowls or plates. Lay two rhubarb batons on each, angled like a sleepy smile. Spoon the cooled syrup around. Using a fine microplane or the small holes of a box grater, grate the frozen buttermilk sorbet over the top—it will snow and scatter. A quenelle or two of ginger cream goes beside, then tear a couple of rose geranium leaves and scatter them last.
~8 min
“This is about gentleness and colour. The rhubarb should sit proud, pink against white; the buttermilk snow should be visible, not melted or trampled. If the ginger cream is too warm, it'll slip into the syrup and muddy the plate. Work quickly, chill your plates. The rose geranium is the final whisper—it looks nice and tastes of gardens, but it's easy to overdo. Less is more here.”
First bite: the rhubarb's tartness hits, sweetened by the Sauternes syrup, warmed by vanilla. The buttermilk snow melts on your tongue with a clean, almost salty tang—a sharp break before the ginger cream softens and spices the finish. The rose geranium leaf adds a ghost of florality, nothing fussy. It's not rich; it's precise. Winter inside a spoon.
Replace buttermilk with unsweetened oat or soy milk whisked with 1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar (leave 10 minutes to curdle). Churn as directed. For the cream, whip 150ml coconut milk (the thick tin, chilled) with 15g icing sugar and the grated ginger. The rhubarb, syrup, and rose geranium stay exactly as they are. You lose a hair of richness but gain something cleaner—the buttermilk vegan sorbet actually sharpens the whole dish.
Low alcohol, gently fizzy, sweet without being cloying—echoes the Sauternes in the rhubarb and lifts the buttermilk's tartness
Locally made if you can find it; ginger sings with the cream, and rose hips bring their own tartness to meet the rhubarb
- ·Don't poach the rhubarb hard—it'll turn to mush and you'll lose the whole point of forced rhubarb's pale elegance
- ·Freeze the buttermilk sorbet really solid; if it's mushy, it won't grate and you'll just get a sad slush
- ·Rose geranium is fragrant—use whole leaves and don't bruise them. Bruised geranium tastes like perfume gone wrong
- ·The syrup keeps in the fridge for a week; you can make this pudding in two halves if you're clever
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