The other day, our daughter, Jennifer, brought us some homemade pizza. She's a great cook and, as I am under the weather with bronchitis, the pizza was welcome and has kept her Mom and I going for several days. Jen is a great daughter, but she has one defect. She likes mushrooms, really likes mushrooms. I was not a perfect parent after all. She sprinkled the shrooms generously upon the pizza we received and covertly covered them with cheese. The first mushroom I ate started out well. I was chewing along and had the thought, "I wonder what this is that I'm eating?" When it occurred to me that it was a devilish mushroom, I swallowed hard without a gag. A day later, a big one got me and the gag kicked in. It reminded me of the time when I was six years old and my parents slipped me buttermilk by mistake and I spewed it our all over the dinner table. With no practice, I soaked everyone's full dinner plate. My parents were not pleased with my gag buttermilk reflex. I still have the scars.
I would rather eat okra than either mushrooms or buttermilk. That is not a compliment to okra.
Note: avoid the next two paragraphs if you are squeamish.
I defy anyone to find any virtue in mushrooms (One advantage of being in the desert is that mushrooms don't grow here. They have to be imported. Why do people go to the trouble?) Mushrooms grow in the forest. They are fungus-the same entity that grows between the toes of would be athletes. I anticipate that left untreated long enough, an athlete's foot infection would eventually turn into gourmet's delight.
I will also note that a cooked mushroom looks a lot like snot. I don't like that word (particularly when I have bronchitis). It may taste like snot too, but I've never knowingly cooked snot, so that will remain a mystery.
Note: the squeamish may want to avoid the next paragraph too.
All this started back in the deep recessed of my memory. I was about four, my sister, Margo, about two. Our mother had made the error of feeding us both mushrooms for lunch, then took us immediately to the Bank of America in downtown San Diego, California. Knowing Mom, I assume she was making a withdrawal, not a deposit. Back in the 1940's you dressed up to go to the bank. Banks were large, sophisticated temples of finance. High ceilings and polished marble floors were the norm. There were Sunday clothes and bank clothes. Bank clothes may have out done Sunday clothes. To get to the point, as we were in the middle of the polished marble floor of the Bank of America downtown San Diego, California, dressed to the nines, Margo, with impeccable timing, let go of all her mushrooms all over the polished marble floor. Kind of creates a visual, doesn't it? The incident became family folklore. Margo was given a free pass, being labeled as by Mom as "allergic to mushrooms." I, who did not throw up, but suffered from Post-Tramatic Visual Mushroom Barf Disease, was not given a free pass (I quote, "Shut up and eat your mushrooms. You didn't throw up on the Bank of America's floor, you're not allergic."). If there had been such a label at that time as there is now, I still don't think Mom would have bought into my PTVMBD.
Note: the squeamish may begin again.
To any one who wants to eat the slimy fungus, go ahead. Just remember it is not animal, mineral or vegetable. It is fungus. If you are a fungus eater, please post a warning at your kitchen table. If you are not:
PTVMBDers UNITE!!!!!!
Confession: Jen, in her defense, warned me about the mushrooms!
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