Lurking in the darkest recess of many back greens are Rheums. With strong branching fleshy roots and erect thick branching stalks, dark red in colour with a slight green tinge to them, they can grow to eight feet in height with the leaves reaching immense proportions. Every year the Rheums burgeon in size, regardless of climatic variations and the continual interference of man.

Doon the back, skulking in a dim, damp corner lies Rheum rhabarbarum, or plain old rhubarb to you and me. Although we use it to all intents and purposes as a fruit, it is in fact a vegetable. The early Greeks, who seem to have a name for everything, called rhubarb the vegetable of ''barbarians'' (anyone who wasn't Greek) and dismissed it from their cuisine. They were so busy consuming ambrosia and honey and indulging in sacrifices on the slopes of Mount Olympus that they totally missed out on the delectable barbaric pudding, stewed rhubarb and custard.

Believed to originate in the southeastern part of what was once called Russia, it has been cultivated in Europe from the mid-17th century. Interestingly, in that very well known and well thumbed book The Statistical Account of Dunkeld of 1770, we read that the Duke of Atholl purchased some Rheum Palmatum seeds (Turkish rhubarb), cultivated it, sold its roots and made huge amounts of filthy lucre. Rhubarb was big business in the 1700s, produced for its medicinal properties which in essence were purgative and, purchased by the affluent, it speaks volumes for the diet of the so-called well-to-do. They would have been far healthier eating the food of the poor folk who kent much better and started the day with a bowl of good plain porridge.

However, whether in the vain hope of making money (the bottom, in fact, fell out of the rhubarb market some years after the Duke's successful enterprise) or because of its attractive colourful features it was to be found by the middle of the 18th century in most cottage gardens.

One attribute of the rhubarb, its giant leaves, have a somewhat ominous quality, as Americans during World War I found out. Encouraged to eat the leaves as a vegetable supplement, many people became ill. It transpires that the leaves are poisonous and can only be eaten by slugs, bugs and beasties. Judging by the bounteous slug population attached to our rhubarb leaves it would appear they treat it as something of a delicacy. Strangely enough, they do not appear to eat the stalks.

Rhubarb may sound unsophisticated but with such a variety of different uses before you even touch on the culinary it is worth checking to see if you have any you can claim for your own. Sharp and tangy to taste, rhubarb is most familiar as a pudding. However, the stalks can be turned into sauces and served with savoury dishes; it can even be made into an exquisite chilled soup. Then there is rhubarb chutney, rhubarb and ginger jam, rhubarb and orange preserve and, of course, rhubarb wine.

Rhubarb stalks should never be eaten raw because of the acid content and it requires large amounts of sugar to make it palatable. The stalks combine well with ginger, lemon, cinnamon and nutmeg and should you have access to very very late blossoming elderflowers then, tied in muslin and cooked with the rhubarb, they add a lovely muscat flavour.

Rhubarb can replace apples in just about all puddings, crumbles, pies, ambers and charlottes, but on this occasion we are going to make a light summery rhubarb parfait, and a spicy chutney that is delightful with salads. To enjoy both you may have to emigrate to warmer climes, or coorie doon beside the fire and pretend.

rhubarb parfait

serves 4-6

4 eggs yolks

4oz icing sugar, sifted

6oz thick rhubarb puree

1/4 pint double cream

1 tspn fresh lemon juice

method

To make the puree, cook 8oz rhubarb in a pan with a wee drop water and a muslin bag of elderflowers if available, or pieces of root ginger, until reduced to 6oz. Then sieve or puree - remembering to remove the ginger and the elderflowers.

Whisk the egg yolks in a metal bowl with the icing sugar over a saucepan of simmering water. Once combined and when the mixture has thickened slightly and turned a pale yellow colour, remove from the heat. Still gently whisking, leave to cool.

Slowly add the rhubarb puree. Taste and sweeten further if necessary, and add the lemon juice.

Whip the cream until it is thick enough to stand in soft peaks. Fold into the fruit mixture. Turn the parfait into the appropriate amount of freezer-proof glasses (we use wine glasses) and freeze until firm. Remove from the freezer about an hour before serving so they soften slightly, and decorate with whatever you desire - chocolate curls, cinnamon and sugar or pieces of crystallised ginger.

(Other fruits such as mangoes and apples can be used instead of rhubarb so long as they make a good thick puree.)

spicy rhubarb and orange chutney

(makes about 4lbs)

2 medium sized onions, chopped

2 oranges

2lbs rhubarb, washed but not peeled (the skin gives the chutney colour) and cut into 1-inch lengths

1 pint malt vinegar

8oz seedless raisins

11/2 lbs soft brown sugar

1/2 oz black mustard seeds

4 white peppercorns

1 tspn ground mixed spice

8 coriander seeds

1 tspn ground ginger

pinch of salt and cayenne pepper

method

Wash the oranges and remove the peel, chopping it finely and keeping for later. Squeeze the oranges and reserve the juice. In a heavy-bottomed pot add all the ingredients and bring the mixture slowly to the boil, stirring frequently. Reduce the heat and simmer for between one to one and a half hours until the chutney is thick and pulpy. By this time a wonderful aroma should be pervading the house. Remove from the heat and ladle the chutney into clean warm jars. Cover and seal and store in a dark cool place until required.

Colin Clydesdale, Restaurant Chef of the Year and recipient

of three AA rosettes, and Carol Wright, both pictured above, are

chef and greeter respectively at Stravaigin, Gibson Street, Glasgow