i dreamed about mushrooms last night.

soft, white, pillowy button mushrooms replaced my pillow and then dared me to eat them. big meaty portabellas wafted through the air, borne on their own aroma. shiitake mushrooms danced in the corner, bowed and then scurried off. varietals that i must have made up, because those are the only types of mushrooms i can identify, whirled round me in the finest display of fungal acrobatics ever seen in dreamland.

i blame ruth reichl.


ever since reading Comfort Me with Apples, i have become obsessed with her recipe for mushroom soup (which i promise to post later, right now i don’t have access to the book). i have made it twice. the first time i discovered that i was hesitant to follow it to the letter–that much half and half is more likely to prevent me from enoying something than enriching the experience for me. so i put a little more broth in, much less half and half, and stirred with a worried frown. i did not let it boil, and followed all of her instructions to the letter.

except for the one about not putting the mushrooms in until the foam from the butter has dispersed. how long does that take? what heat does that take? i almost burned the butter before i gave up on that step.

it didn’t matter. it was amazing.

the second time i made it, i followed my little alterations. but then, to my shame, i let it boil. just a little, and just very briefly, and my defense is that i was finishing the book at the same time, but still.

it didn’t matter. it is amazing.

i have never dreamed of food before, much less gone to bed smelling it (hours after i had last touched the stuff), woken up craving it, and thinking about it in between.

this food is, for me, what i imagine crack is for other people.

i am in love…

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