My late Uncle Pepe was an avid mushroom hunter, rising early on late-summer Saturdays, field guide in hand, to head to a local New York City park for his weekly forage. My father was always game, but my mother, who firmly believed in the old adage, “There are old mushroom hunters, and there are bold mushroom hunters, but there are no old, bold mushroom hunters,” wouldn’t allow us to partake in the feast until the following day, when my aunt’s and uncle’s survival would provide proof of its safety. More than 40 years later, I still find myself craving those mushrooms.
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