“These are really good,” my coworker spoke quietly, “Don’t tell anyone I gave them to you,” he added as he glanced around nervously. He pressed a brown bag into my hands and backed out of my office.
At home I opened the bag and golden morels spilled out on to the counter. The spores were aliens; scary creatures of mystery but not intrigue. In my early years, mushrooms represented the dark, dank unknown. I stored the fungi in the refrigerator until I was able to forget their existence, and eventually they were pitched. Read More