Honey
Fungus
Sarah Schofield /
“D
o you trust me?” you say. You tie a scarf around his
eyes and lead him through the autumn loaming. He
stumbles on roots. Brambles snag his city coat. You sit him on
a stump strangled with fungi; licorice rhizomorphs splitting the
bark. You uncover his eyes and while you gather puffballs and
juniper he talks about Michelin stars and the celebrities he’s fed.
Later, he sits dumb in your kitchen as you caramelize Honey
Fungus wedges in salty butter, shred wild garlic and smash
toasted cobnuts into shards.
He toys with his knife. “It’s safe… isn’t it?” He eats greenly,
laying a morsel onto his tongue, his ears pricked. “You can get
me anything? Razor clams, morchella, sea lettuces?”
You smile. He loads his fork.