Mushroom City

Several years ago, thirty, to be exact, our best friends' little boy, Karl, sat in the living room  watching his dad clip hair balls off the family's long-haired cat.

After Karl, aged three, had had enough of watching this chore, he ran into the kitchen where his mother was preparing dinner.

"Mom!" Karl announced. "It's Hairball City in there!"

I thought of little Karl yesterday as I wandered around our yard, spotting mushrooms. I've never before seen so many of them, and so many types.

I wish I knew something about mushrooms because I'd like to know if any of these are edible. Or perhaps I don't want to know anything about mushrooms, because I'd then worry that I might have eaten one that would kill me.

A few years ago, here in Maine, a couple of young men were walking in a field, spotted some mushrooms, and thought for certain they were edible. One died within hours after consuming a raw mushroom. The other man became gravely ill, but I don't remember if he died.

I got a  kick out of this one by Violet's fairy house in my rock garden. It had the audacity to make itself at home in the walkway Violet created.

I'm sure if I do more wandering outside today, I'll see that some of these mushrooms have disappeared with barely a trace and others have taken their place.

I love mushrooms in many recipes. I'll stick with the store-bought ones, though.