Mushrooms II, the Sequel

And now, here is a picture story about eating mushrooms that grow in the back yard.

Shaggy, inky mushrooms

Shaggy, inky mushrooms mit shaggy, inky hund (Bella der Hund)

shaggy, inky mushrooms mit shaggy, inky mann

Der mann hackt die mushrooms...

...und adds olivenöl

und braten die mushrooms mit die olivenöl.

"Zehr gut!" says der mann. "Who wants to essen first?"

"Hier Max, essen diese mushrooms from the back yard!"
"Nein, danke!"

"Hallo, Philip! Dann you essen diese mushrooms from the back yard!"
"Nein, danke!"

"Dann... ach so, komme hier Bella, essen diese mu... Bella! Komme hier! Bella!"

"Okay, dann ich will essen diese mushrooms from the back yard, jaaa!"


Later in the evening, I thought I may have been having a vision induced by the mushrooms when a brass band came down our street, in the dark, in a light rain, followed by what must have been all of Aldenhoven, or seemed to be so, shuffling along, and everyone carrying homemade paper lanterns, which bobbed in die dunkleheit . Then when the parade was followed by a car with 'Antalya Kebabs' in big letters on its side, and I waved and said, 'Merhaba!' to the lads in the car, and they shouted, 'Merhaba!' back, I was sure it was a vision. But then I said to Elke, 'Pinch me, you may be but a mushroom induced hallucination,' and she punched me in the arm instead, and I knew it was all real.
Elke also explained that it was Saint Martin's feast day, and this parade in the night was tradition, and the people would all gather at a bonfire where 'St. Martin' would arrive on a white horse, which, had I been there, would have convinced me my mushroom had been a psychoactive one.
Later, some children came with their parents to the door, singing, and Max and Philip gave then candy. It was a pleasant cross between Christmas caroling and Halloween.

So in the end it was not a bad mushroom. It was a tasty one, fried in olive oil, and I shall devour more of the morsels. The lads, Max and Philip, have said that if I survive for a whole week, they might try one. Maybe.

Which reminds me of the time I spent living on a mountain in Portugal with a mad Dutchman named Siegfried-- not a common name in Holland, but he was born during the War-- and mad Siegfried had given me a half ruin to live in, down the hill a bit from his house, and free of charge, where I spent much time that winter sitting in an enormous fireplace meant for smoking a whole hog, but I sat smoking hand-rolled cigarettes instead of hogs, and sipping wine, and watching the steam coming off my boots, as they were almost in the fire. Siegfried would usually invite me to his spooky house at the top of the mountain for dinner, and he would occasionally serve up a dish with hand picked mushrooms in it, but I wouldn't know until after I'd eaten most of the meal, and asked what was in it, then he'd tell, and his girlfriend, Maria, would always say something like, "Ja, we know in a few hours if we live until tomorrow," and I would lose my appetite, and Siegfried would say that if our energy was good, we would survive even if he had made a mistake.
I was fortunate to miss that one dinner when he had indeed made a mistake, and picked the wrong copper-colored mushroom, and made a meal of it, and despite their good energy, he and Maria had wretched and moaned for a whole day afterwards.

But I am very careful with my mushrooms, let the reader be aware.
No Russian mushroom roulette for me.

Which inspires me to write this little poem:

Mad Siegfried was rushin' to play 
Russian mushroom roulette

Thought he found a chanterelle
but was a jack o lantern that he et

Good vibes didn't help him 
and he broke into a sweat

Wouldn't have a doctor 
so I took him to the vet


I'm just joking about the last part of the poem.

He didn't really break into a sweat.