When Mum prepared rude mushrooms
bought from the greengrocer
at a mighty price,
she’d steep them in salted water
to bring out any maggots,
remove their stalks,
peel them, spoon out their gills
and discard the trimmings
glance at the clock, grimace at the waste
and sigh. Cooked to a shrivel,
added to a pot of mince and onions,
served with spuds and gravy and peas,
for a Sunday dinner
we were expected to be impressed.
After foraging with Dad at dawn
we’d return from the airfield
sweaters loaded with our finds.
He knew the best spots,
could spot a puffball at fifty yards
and avoided the poisonous fungi.
As hunter gatherers we tumbled
brown and pink and white buttons
into the sink and smiled. Breakfast
earned, bacon and eggs to accompany
the truffle-related treasures, or maybe
alone with thick toast.
Large, flat, meaty beasts,
checked for any holes,
received a spoonful of butter,
a shake of salt and pepper,
and he’d set them in a hot pan
skins intact, stalks sautéd beside their cups
until the seasoning drew through
the yellow melt and sizzled beneath.
