Luzia’s Strawberry Rhubarb Tiramisu, Absent The Strawberries

Medically reviewed by Christiana George Updated Date: January 6, 2026

Rhubarb

For this post, I’d like to introduce my friend Luzia.

Luzia and I met about a year-and-a-half ago on the bus ride to the starting point of the Inca Trail. For the next four days, we shared the unforgettable experience of hiking the 26-mile-long trail together, culminating in our arrival at the ancient Inca city of Machu Picchu. There were 14 of us in our group, but out of everyone, Chris and I got along best with her and her boyfriend Berni.

When we parted ways, we kept in touch since we knew we’d be taking approximately the same path south, and about three months later, the four of us finally met for dinner in Ushuaia, the southernmost town on the South American continent.



If that’s not poetic, I don’t know what is. They actually continued on to Brazil for Carnaval before heading back to Switzerland, whereas we ended our trip in Buenos Aires. And that was that.

But actually, it wasn’t, because she and I kept in touch. We’ve kept up a pretty consistent correspondence for the last year, exchanging lengthy emails, in English, and despite it not being her native tongue, she still rocks it. (How do the Swiss do it? She also became practically fluent in Spanish, whereas I at best mastered five phrases.) We are modern-day pen pals.

I’ve always loved exchanging letters with faraway friends. When I was nine, after my family had moved back to the U.S. from Hong Kong, I kept in touch with my best friend by exchanging long, handwritten letters. We kept up our penpalship for years, and I remember it to this day with much fondness. That’s what this correspondence with Luzia has felt like.

Luzia’s Strawberry Rhubarb Tiramisu, Absent The Strawberries

Coincidentally, Luzia and Berni also love to cook. About 6 months ago, I asked if she could share a Swiss recipe with me, something traditional that I could make for the blog. She returned with two, one she called Älplermagrone, or Macaroni for the Alpine Herdsman, which, hahaha, I had a pretty good laugh over because the direct translation is just too funny. The other was this strawberry rhubarb tiramisu, which, while it isn’t Swiss at all, is her favorite dessert. That pretty much clinched it. Once rhubarb season rolled around, I would make it. She warned me that it looks disgusting and recommended that I serve it in glasses. Thanks for the tip, Luzia! I am passing it on to the rest of you.

All in all, I loved it! If this recipe is any indicator, we Americans like our desserts much sweeter than European standards. Stewed rhubarb, according to Martha Stewart, calls for 2/3 cup of sugar per 10 ounces of rhubarb (or over a cup per pound). Luzia recommended 5 tablespoons, or just a little over 1/4 cup, per pound. That’s a pretty dramatic difference. In the end, I settled on 6 tablespoons for my pound of rhubarb and that felt just about right to me. The rhubarb retained its pucker, but was nicely balanced by the creamy sweetness of the mascarpone cream and ladyfingers (that’s what we call them, Luzia, odd-sounding, I know), as well as a few splashes of Grand Marnier. It was such a perfect variation of a normally decadent dessert, and really ideal for the springtime.

I have to point out that unfortunately, I am doing this recipe a disservice because I didn’t include the macerated strawberries. My access to most fruits has been limited to the bland-tasting crap being shipped over from who-knows-where, and I know that for this dessert, Luzia is quite particular about using only local, fresh strawberries. I will make amends by doing it right next time, but readers, please take note.

Luzia’s Strawberry Rhubarb Tiramisu, Absent The Strawberries

Luzia, thanks so much for everything! Not only for the recipe, but also for your steadfast communication and friendship. I envision you, Berni, Chris, and I sitting together one day over a home-cooked meal, and it will be great. Promise me that we will make it happen?



LUZIA’S STRAWBERRY RHUBARB TIRAMISU

Serves 6 to 8
Adapted from my friend Luzia

Since I didn’t make the strawberries, I doubled the stewed rhubarb portion.

Ingredients:

For the stewed rhubarb:

  • 1/2 lb. rhubarb
  • 3 Tbsp sugar
  • 1/2 tsp vanilla extract
  • 1 Tbsp water
  • 2 Tbsp Grand Marnier liqueur

For the strawberries:

  • 1/2 lb. strawberries, plus extra for garnish
  • 1 Tbsp sugar

For the mascarpone cream:

  • 2 eggs, separated
  • 2 Tbsp sugar
  • 8 oz. mascarpone
  • 12 to 16 ladyfingers

Directions:

For the stewed rhubarb:

In a saucepan over a low flame, add the rhubarb, sugar, vanilla, and water and cook until soft, 7 to 10 minutes. Turn off the heat, and remove about 1/4 cup of the liquid. Set it aside. Stir in the Grand Marnier. Set aside to cool. This step can be prepared a day in advance.

For the strawberries:



Slice the strawberries, stir with the sugar, and set aside.

For the mascarpone cream:

In a medium bowl, whisk together the egg yolks and sugar until well combined. Stir in the mascarpone and mix well. Whisk the egg whites until stiff (I used my stand mixer), and carefully fold it into the yolk mixture.

Assembling:

I would layer the tiramisu this way: a layer of ladyfingers that had been dunked in the liquid removed from the stewed rhubarb on the bottom, a layer of stewed rhubarb, a layer of mascarpone cream, a second layer of ladyfingers, a layer of strawberries, a second layer of mascarpone cream. Feel free to garnish the top with extra slices of strawberry. (Note: I served the tiramisu in individual glasses using 2 ladyfingers per glass. However, if you decide to use a larger dish, make sure to split the ladyfingers and mascarpone evenly between their layers.)

After assembling, refrigerate for at least 1 hour before serving.



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Citrus Pomegranate Mint Tea

Christiana George
Citrus Pomegranate Mint Tea

I’m not usually a fan of juices. The frugal side of me finds them terribly wasteful—all that fiber being squeezed away, especially when fruit comes at such a high cost in these parts. And I’m still a little scarred from that Kelly Wearstler interview in Bon Appetit awhile ago, where she basically admitted to being on a liquid diet for about 90% of her day. Shudder. The thought of subsisting off plankton water and Superfood juice sounds horribly depressing. (But then again, I’m not an interior, architecture, and fashion maven with a small empire under my feet. There can’t be too much to be depressed about when one’s life is described that way.)

Despite my ambivalence, I haven’t been able to get a certain citrus punch out of my head. It was, without exaggeration, one of the most refreshing beverages I’ve ever drunk. I’ve been yearning for something as rejuvenating ever since, so it only seemed right to take advantage of citrus season and try my hand at concocting my own version.

My notes below.



Citrus Pomegranate Mint Tea

1. Satsuma orange juice is, hands down, my favorite. It’s sweet and festive and smells so good! And it’s practically opaque! Like liquid sunshine, truly. But a piece of my heart breaks every time I juice one; it just goes against my better judgment, you know? They’re meant to be eaten! Nature couldn’t have engineered a better snack fruit. The waste, oh, the waste!

2. Blood orange juice is kind of bossy. You know how it’s got a slightly woody taste? Yeah, that tends to take over whatever you mix it with. Its color also dominates, which is fine most of the time because blood orange juice is beautiful, but not when it obscures the aforementioned sunshine.

3. Cara cara oranges look pretty, but their juice comes out tasting and looking an awful lot like regular orange juice. The two are pretty interchangeable in my mind, although cara caras are such a pleasure to eat because of their lovely salmon hue.

4. Yuzus are a bitch to juice. Have you seen a yuzu? (If not, picture below.) It’s like the sumo wrestler of the citrus world, all thick skin and padding. It’s also got thick, well-developed, er, walls (sorry, didn’t have time to brush up on my citrus anatomy), requiring some serious muscle action to extract a disappointingly scant amount of juice. But, like the way it smells—floral and extremely fragrant—its juice tastes pretty spectacular. It’s one of my dad’s favorite fruits.

Citrus Pomegranate Mint Tea

I also introduced some ruby red grapefruits, honey tangerines, lemon, and sweet lime into the mix. Nothing to note, except grapefruit juice is awfully watery. I would’ve loved to get my hands on some kumquats, but Whole Foods didn’t have any in stock, sadly. I wouldn’t juice them anyway – the skin is part and parcel of the whole kumquat experience.

As far as mixes go, I realized the complexity of each type of citrus would be drowned out if I didn’t curate my selection. So I decided to stick to just two types, cara cara (or navel) and satsuma. They’re quite complementary.

In the end though, I wanted something more than just a fancy fruit juice. I wanted a restorative counterpart that would coax me into a zen-like calm. That’s where the green tea comes in. It adds a touch of earnestness to the drink that turns it into a balm that chases away all wintry blues.



Citrus Pomegranate Mint Tea

CITRUS POMEGRANATE MINT TEA

Makes 1 drink
Adapted from Martha Stewart

The measurements listed below are rough, as so much of the drink depends on the strength of the tea and how sweet you usually like your drinks. I would go easy on the sugar, though. It’s meant to be refreshing, not a Starbucks beverage. Also, for the green tea, I used a loose-leaf jasmine that I infused to the strength I usually like to drink it.

Ingredients:

  • 5 fresh mint leaves
  • A pinch or two of sugar
  • 1/2 cup or so fresh citrus juice (I like a mixture of about half tangerine juice and half cara cara)
  • 1 Tbsp pomegranate molasses
  • Ice
  • 1/2 cup or more green tea, chilled

Directions:

Muddle mint and sugar in the bottom of a tall glass until mint breaks into tiny pieces. Add juice and molasses; stir to combine. Fill glass halfway with ice and top with green tea. Stir before serving.



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