A trio of mushroom memories

WordSmith

Gerard Smith

This week I’ve had mushrooms on my mind. A friend and I went for a hike in Mullaghmeen Forest in Westmeath. We opted for a seven kilometre trail through mostly shaded woodland with a gentle upward climb. The reward on reaching the top is stunning views over Lough Sheelin, a vantage point which shows you the epic size of the lake in glorious Widescreen-Panavision.

On the way up my friend stopped by a cluster of wild mushrooms to take a picture. The sight of them unlocked in me a series of three mushroom memories which I’d like to recount here.

The first memory unfolds on a glorious summer day, much like the ones we’ve been enjoying of late. My sister Maria and I were wandering through woodland, chatting as we went. Earlier, our country granny had handed us paper bags and given us a task, “Gather up some mushrooms and we’ll have a treat,” she said. By the time we returned our bags were bulging with an impressive bounty.

Granny was impressed, Maria and I watched as she washed and dried our haul. Like two hungry kittens, we followed her from the kitchen to the range. What happened next astonished my city-kid sensibilities. Granny placed a generous knob of butter directly onto the hot surface of the stove. As it melted into a golden, gently sizzling pool, she tumbled in the mushrooms. Using a knife, she stirred them through the butter until they glistened, then pushed them to a cooler corner of the range. A sprinkle of salt and white pepper followed, before she handed each of us a fork. The three of us ate straight from the stove top. I can still remember the taste, every mushroom was an explosion of buttery richness, balanced by a delicate earthiness that seemed to capture the very essence of the forest floor. We ate in reverential silence, broken only by the occasional appreciative murmur. I can honestly say that, of all the memorable meals I’ve enjoyed in my life, none has surpassed those simply cooked mushrooms shared with Maria and granny around that range.

My next mushroom memory is quite different, but equally memorable. I’m seventeen and we are on the cusp of September which means: Back To School. It was my final weekend before the confines of the curriculum took hold, and I was curious. This time I foraged alone and the culinary experience wasn’t as great as granny’s. I left the foraging meadow and walked into town to window-shop.

My friend worked in Mullens, a shoe shop on main street. About fifteen minutes before closing time I wandered in to say hello. The moment I crossed the threshold, a pair of beige desert boots leapt from the shelf and charged towards me. I stared at them in disbelief. Before I could make sense of what I was seeing, they were joined by a pair of preppy boat shoes. The four shoes formed a neat little circle around me and appeared to be having a conference. I looked around for my friend, hoping he might explain this bizarre display. Instead, I watched in astonishment as every shoe in the shop sprang from the shelves. Brogues, loafers, trainers, sandals and stilettos, all leapt onto the floor and began dancing to Dexys Midnight Runner’s ‘Come on Eileen’.

It was a spectacle unlike anything I’d ever seen; shoes shuffling in perfect Celtic-Soul-Rhythm. I stood in the middle of this impromptu dancefloor, laughing uproariously. Now, here’s my confession on the dancefloor: earlier that day the mushrooms I’d eaten were magic, and their hallucinogenic powers chose the middle of Mullens to make their entrance.

I never took that trip again, one performance from The Mullens Footwear Ensemble was enough to do me a lifetime.

My third mushroom memory was rather explosive. I was having lunch with work colleagues when one began lamenting the lack of choice for vegetarians. Eager to help I suggested, “What about the mushroom risotto?” He sighed, “Not much nutritional value in that.” Ever the optimist, I replied, “Mushrooms are full of fibre, vitamin-d, low in calories…” He cut me off, “Mushrooms have NO nutritional value!” The anger in his response caught me off guard. Hoping to calm things down I shrugged and said, “Well, I love them, and I think they’re nutritious.” That lit a fuse and he exploded, throwing f-bombs at me that mushroomed into personal insults, “What do you know? You went to Art School!” In retaliation, I ordered the mushroom risotto. We all ate in a tense silence, lest we say something that might reignite the Mushroom-War.

And finally, the multi-talented Ann O’Donoghue, whose photographs often appear in this paper, gifted me a painting – it’s a fitting tribute to the Mighty-Mushroom.