I've mentioned my passion for mushrooms to you. You may or may not recall. Essentially I think mushrooms rock. I scramble for some more convincing, eloquent way to describe these perfect morsels. Phrases like stuff of the gods spring to mind and yet, don't quite seem to capture the near ecstasy I feel while eating them and while thinking about eating them. The other night, I sauteed a mix of cremini, shiitake, brown button and portobello. I added a little olive oil, salt and the ever-ubiquitous garlic and there! you have it: the perfect food. I realized as I ate them in an almost desperate fashion that I wasn't a kid anymore. Only my husband and I clamoured for them; the kids watched us in disgusted silence and contented themselves with the pasta and rose sauce, which for me, was the clear cut side dish of the evening.
The meaty substantialness makes my belly feel like it's just returned from a sleepover at my Grandma's house. I feel content in the way that her air-dried flannel sheets, still smelling of love and of the sun made me feel when I was eight. Mushrooms and Grandma and sunshine and love. Stuff of the gods.