Mushroom Picking

In the cool of an autumn morning my father and his friend, Jimmy Kerin, would go mushroom picking in paddocks way out past the last suburban fence. I would tag along not to pick but feel the freedom of open land stretching as far as the eye could see and for the pleasure of the ride. I would sit in the back seat of Mr Kerin’s 1950's Skoda, taking in the smell of the leather and laying out along its length like a ferried prince. I can remember the wet, green paddocks, the cold dew being flipped up to coat the back of my bare legs as I walked. Then, seeing a carpet of white crowns pushing up through the short grass, plump eruptions catching the morning sun that got my Dad and Mr Kerin excited and set them off decapitating the tallest with their kitchen knives. They soon would each have a bucket full, some mushroom heads as big as Dad's hand. That evening the ritualized meal would be acted out. Dad sitting at the table waiting, Mum frying up the mushrooms in a cast iron pan then making the juices into a thick buttery gravy. It was a celebration with Dad voicing his pleasure on downing each savored mouthful. Mum and us kids would look on, none of us could stomach the taste of fungi and instead, tucked into tomato soup and toast. Such simple memories seem to cling onto life as if sensing autumn, stirring deep in the self's soil to poke their heads up here.