lust of mushrooms

He asked me what meat tasted like.
I gave his question careful consideration.

'Why do you want to know? Are you becoming carnivorous?'
'No,' he answers, convincingly caught between two rifts.
'I've nevel eaten it, but thelle's so much of it alound heal. You almost glow it on tlees.'
' . . On trees . . hmm . . yes . . We seem to grow many things on trees..'
'But, what is it like? I mean as fall as taste and textchule. I guess it must be salty and leally tough..'
'Do you wear leather?'
'Leathah? No, um . . no.'
'But you're wearing Reeboks. They use leather in their shoes you know.'
'Oh, yes but salesman assuled me these had no leathah. They use plastic instead.'
'Mmm... good. I guess, well, if you drive by McDonalds the smell might be like the taste of meat, really low grade meat. No, no, don't do that. If you really want to taste meat it should be higher quality stuff, like filet mignon . . You do mean beef, don't you? But that would be sacriledge . . . maybe a chicken flavor . .I guess pork would be out of the question. Can you eat fish?'
'No no no, I don't want to taste meat by tasting it, no meat, no animals, no um, cow, but all meat does not taste same? I buy the bloth cubes with chicken and beef on the label though thele is no beef ol chicken in it, both taste same.'
'That's just boullion.. It's mostly salt and, well salt.. Have you ever seen snow?'
'Snow? Yes. When I go to visit a flend neal Tibet. White stuff, welly cold.'
'Well, how would describe snow to someone who had never seen it?'
'Nevel seen it? White stuff, welly cold.'
'Ah... Why do you want to know what meat tastes like?'
'I,' a guilty look passes over his face as his eyes scan to and fro with background visions of the forbidden, 'I .. I just am . . . culious.'
'And just now you have decided you'd like to know?'
'Mmmm... yes... It is because I am new to Amellica.' He beams, having found a plausible excuse.
'Ok. I'll see what I can do.'

A pound of mushrooms caps, bilious to perfection like the marshmallows rings of the Michelin Man, some brown flaky shitake mushrooms and a few home grown ones of phallic nature supposed to boost the libido in time of need. Kevasti gave me those.

'Your friend is in great need I suspect. Is his wife with him?' 'No,' I said, 'he's unmarried.'
'Ahhh, he is in even greater need of fulfillment. Here, you better try some of these.'
'Do you pick these or do you emasculate grown men?'
'Hah hah, yes, typical response. No, I grow them in the corner of the basement. They need a little light and must be watered with a tad bit of vinegar in the wat'ring broth. It keeps the stalks long and succulent.'
' . .'Long and succulent . .' How should I serve them?'
'Oh, just dice them as you normally would. Leave the cap intact since it's so small. It contains a faint trace of anisette though not as strong as the horse mushrooms. They'll do well for a beef-type flavor. The orange paraplu's give a better sense of chicken, especially if you serve asparagus, makes for interesting urine. . . If you let the spore balls ripen a little beyond ideal they'll do for salmon with a pinch of dill. Best to serve on a bed of egg noodles. . . garlic, yes. Be sure to be liberal with the garlic . . It is beef you're aiming for?'
'I don't know.'
'Hmm. Give him what he needs. Go for beef.'


Mushrooms taste of flesh as they taste of leaves and grass though being neither one in direct consequence. Kevasti once claimed that if people knew how mushrooms acquired their flavors and certain 'exceptional' properties more people would embed themselves in cow-shit.

I slice the mushrooms in cross-section, the shitake in radial wedges, the phalluses in columnar pieces leaving the caps intact. I'd tickle the feathery cuffs if not under sureveillance.

He watches intently while I engage in crushing cloves of the garlic, adding needed powders and airs to a skillet bubbling hot oil.

'Yes, yes, I see . . you have,' He puts a dab of the oil on his tongue, 'peppah and, mmmn, cloves I think, some.. some calldamon?'
'Garam masala.'
'Ah, yes. yes. excellent. It will be welly good. I can taste the gallic.'
'Garlic is a wonderful spice.'
'How do you mean?'
'Well, it's so full and embodied.. it makes you feel warm all over if you eat it raw, and if you cook it to tenderness it draws you into a mellow softness.'
'Mmmmm, yesss.' His expression trails back to memories from a wistful childhood.

I toss the mushrooms into the skillet, shaking the bowl a few times to leave no pieces behind. The water left from rinsing leaves in tumultuous sprachts and sizzles, rising in a cloud of aromatic droplets. I have my small jars of powders at hand. Red of pepper, red of paprika, more when the fringes have gone to black. Coriander for the flowers the goats would have eaten. Paprika for a sense of Bavaria. Salt for the vital juices in lymph and in veins. More oil for the sweat of summer. Black pepper for the slaughterhouse floor. Red pepper for the blood red under the confused sense of the eye's last flickering gaze. To speed the process a thick, drooling glug of molasses soya, the brand with the shining baby buddha under a shining orange star.

'Do you know what this says?' I hand him the long-necked bottle.
'No. It looks like Thai.'

With a scrape and slash the oil bubbles all the more, exposed to then unexposed surfaces. Mushrooms loose their stiffness. Mushrooms loose their spongy fleshiness as the tenderness seeps in. We can smell the change in the droplets hovering over the gas-lit burners.

A slash of soya shows up far less on his wrist than on mine. With a dampened towel he gingerly wipes my fingers clean cooing in a gentle giggle when I hold them up to appreciate the brown streaks left by a sloppy bottle.

I thought of the Bordeaux sitting quietly on a milk crate in the basement, but he doesn't drink wine. The alcohol makes him sick. Of the range of substitues we agree on tea, chai made with boiling milk -- soya milk, cardamon seeds and a blend of teas received from a kind sister. Cow's milk makes him sick as well. One enzyme missing, two enzymes missing... Strange how it is...

The egg noodles bubble nearby on a separate burner. Kevasti recommended a setting of stroghanoff.

'I know just how he feels,' Kevasti has said. 'I couldn't find anything to satisfy when I was in need and so, you see, I gave in. I crossed the line.' He grins sheepishly. 'If I had known what to prepare and how, *how* is the key, I would not have, I would never have..' A wry smile appears from the corners of his lips. 'No steak for me..'

His eyebrows betray a hint of indescision as he mulls the first few bites around his mouth with his tongue.

'This is what meat tastes like?'
'Yes. I'd say it's very close. I'd say it tastes better than meat.'
'Ahhh. Good. Good.'

Given fully to the flavor of the meal he can but speak in syllables between mouthfuls.

'The gallic . . Yes. . . This is most fine . . . Mmm . . . It is most, how would you say? RRRobust!'

The conversation dwindles to silence, an intense silence passing the minutes with the clatter of silverware. He does not stop, pausing only to take a sip of tea or readjust the napkin. He finishes well before I have even conquered half of the plate.

'Ahh, yes,' He sits back in the chair as satisfied look manifests itself on his face. He lets his eyes drift to the ceiling, crossing his arms loosely over his chest.

'This will do vely nicely. . .'

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