Note to readers: My living will is in a box of files, in a moving truck, somewhere between Seattle and Madison. It says once I resemble a vegetable, pull the plug.
That said, mushroom pizza is not a bad way to depart this world.
Last night marked a milestone: Wes and I eat mushrooms of our own hunting, ones that aren’t bright yellow hens of the woods and therefore incredibly obvious, albeit not ones that have any obvious poisonous lookalikes. We think they were angel wings, Phyllotus porrigens, as identified by the white spore print; the thin delicate white dry caps; the narrow gills, the absent stalks; and the choir I heard when I found them, thick on a log in the Arboretum.
Wes is now officially the more fearless of the two of us. After he nonchalantly snacked on a mushroom yesterday afternoon and failed to vomit or die over the next few hours, we made pizza di funghi last night. Well, pizza di funghi, leeks, bacon, grana padano and garlic. O, O, O, O, as poor dying Hamlet says in the Folio. Was that what he meant? That he saw heaven, and the clouds bore angel wings?
Incidentally, if you couldn’t tell from the way it looks at you, don’t eat the poisonous Earthball, Scleroderma citrinum: