Mushrooms

Sometimes in the fall we would go mushroom picking. My father and I would go on the bike, he knew the places to go in the woods, and we would search for the deep orange chantarelles. The stillness of the woods, the fall smells, the rustling dead oak leaves, the search itself was almost intoxicating. When we found them, it was a great prize.

When we came home, my father would fry the chantarelles for lunch. I only remember him cooking two dishes: the chantarelles, fried in butter (or probably margarine), which we would eat on a sandwich, and curried rice. The smell of the curry was so entirely foreign to my mother’s cooking, so exotic, we were always looking forward to it. Unfortunately the younger children were forbidden to eat the curried rice, my mother considered the spicyness unhealthy. But for the older ones my father’s cooking was a treat!