Rhyming Risks

"The past is not dead. It's not even past."

William Faulkner was onto something. Twenty-five years ago, my sister and mother looked at each other across a dish of wild mushrooms, gathered from our property here. The mushroom expert was an artist, married to the musician who was also writing a biography of my uncle (see the link to Sackbut Blues at left).

The mushrooms were meant as food, by the way, not a mind-blowing experience. Although they proved to be one in their own way, I guess.

My mother was wary. My sister was wary. But each watched the other take mushrooms, to be polite, and take a bite. Later, each said, "I only ate it because YOU did!"

The mushrooms were fine. My mother and sister were fine. But the lengths people go to, just to be polite! Holy cow.

Despite this ultimately positive experience, our family did not turn into "eat off the land" food gurus.

Yesterday a neighbour brought me a dish of risotto with parmesan and wild mushrooms. The wild mushrooms has been gathered from the "fairy ring" in our back yard.

I looked at her. "You've eaten some of this?" She assured me she had. "You're not dead?" She was not.

So I ate a bite. And of course, they were fabulous. Well, the risotto was great; what's not to love about creamy, cheesy ricey stuff? And the mushrooms were good. I like mushrooms. I suffered no ill effects.

But geez, the lengths people will go to, just to be polite.

The past isn't dead, and neither am I. So far.