Sunday, November 23, 2008
For quite a long time I've disliked mushrooms. More than disliked. The thought of adding them to any food was absolutely nauseating to me. I couldn't even stand to add them to spaghetti sauce! It has only been very recently that I can eat them.
This traced back to a very, very vague memory that I had as a child. Indeed, the memory was so vague, that I thought it to be a dream. It has recently been referred to in conversation, and confirmed that it was an actual occurrence.
I must have been 5 or 6. And my father cooked mushrooms for dinner. Now, all he did was braise them in butter. Did I say braise? That indicates that it might be something nice. He took it a bit far though, always 'braised' his mushrooms in butter, until they resembled some kind of lumpy volcanic mud, dolloped onto your plate. And it stunk to high heavens. He never added anything to it, except maybe some salt and pepper. I'm sure it could be made quite nice, but Dad just massacred it!
Anyway, he served this goo to us one night for dinner. We were given an ultimatum, I think, eat it or no dessert. I don't remember eating it. But my brother did. The whole damn lot. And he sat there and looked uncomfortable after it. And then he did the grossest thing imaginable. He threw up. The whole lot. On.His.Plate! And it looked exactly the fucking same as it did before he ate it.
And that's why I don't like mushrooms!