The Mushroom
My husband of nearly 37 years sometimes tells friends of an event that convinced him that I was a good partner for adventuring together: This happened when he brought home a large boletus mushroom to the college Co-Op house where we both lived.
“Who wants to try some of this mushroom?”, he offered, holding up a crumpled paper bag. He pulled out a very large brown mushroom. There were no takers; just a few raised eyebrows that moved along. I eagerly agreed to partake.
The thing is, it really demonstrates just how overly trustful I was in those days. Now a somewhat wiser woman, I know that plenty of people have had bad experiences from ingesting all types of fungi offered, they being misidentified intentionally or not.I remember that David cooked it with garlic and butter and stuffing in the large cap. It was a spongy, tasty specimen with the texture of eggplant. We ate it off cafeteria style plates, laughing and joking.
Fast forward decades later, I am hiking with my 31 year old daughter, Keli and her husband Zane on a lovely Oregon coast trail near Florence. It is a well travelled trail, winding through forest and open beach. As we near the end of our hike, we see David stopped in admiration of a large boletus. It is completely perfect, no torn edges or dirt scuffed up on it. It is completely singular and radiant. We had just greeted some hikers with children coming from the direction we were headed, so I found it surprising that this beautiful specimen had survived. Mushrooms are fun to kick over or poke at, but this one had been left intact.
Add to the effect, that the sun is now out (on the Oregon Coast) and it is bathed in soft light. There is a glowing orange red hue cast on this solitary beauty. David and I speculate as to its weight, estimating 1–2 pounds. He and I are getting ourselves ready to harvest our future feast, excitedly.
Keli’s eyes flash. “It’s cursed”, she says. “We are not eating that mushroom”, she states emphatically. Dave and I look at each other. We know that it is not cursed, a talisman from a fairy tale - rather, it is an echo from our happy past. But it is time for us elders to let go of our early beginnings. The mushroom is so large that it would have to be shared. Dave snaps some farewell pictures and Keli utters, “I am doubling down on this one, mom. It is too perfect to be real. We are not eating it”.
My hunter-gatherer impulses are damped; I see the power of letting it go. We let it go. We continue down the trail and back to our vacation home, anticipating some safely purchased snacks and libations. I couldn’t help thinking how scrumptious the mushroom would have been with our chilled white wine, but now the story is better. The one that got away.
