Since our bout with Irene and several drenching days of rain since, our ground has been extremely moist. So moist, in fact, that mushrooms in these parts are flourishing. They are sprouting in the lawn, laddering their way up trees… they’re everywhere.
I have trained my children to never touch a wild mushroom. Yes, we don’t even touch them. That’s because when I was about three years old, I picked a mushroom from the front yard and ate it. I remember it very clearly. I remember being whisked into the house, made to drink ipecac, and then sitting in the bathtub for several hours as I repeatedly threw up. Again and again. I do believe I was an adult before another molecule of mushroom passed my lips – this time the store variety.
Now, I’m a bit of a connoisseur of mushrooms – portobellas, shitake, crimini. Yummy. But never a mushroom from the yard. Never. Shudder.