Imagine this: it is raining again.
That doesn’t stop the Junior Mycologist from saying “Let’s go see the mushrooms!” So, covered with raingear and tall boots, we go out and see what we can see. She loves the routine of poking the puffballs with a long stick. She delights in finding fairy rings of mushrooms around the trees. And she squeals when she sees a toadstool.
You’d think all this dampness would mean it was a banner year for fungi. No such luck; it’s an “eh” year for them, or at least for those that matter to the landowning taxpayers: my harvest of porcini this year has been 4. Yep. Four lonely edible mushrooms of the dozens of varieties we have. I blame the snow, and secondly, the chickens (who’re an easy scapegoat for a bad harvest).
We also saw scores of robins. Sniff. They’re on their way south.
The only way I could tempt the child out of the rain was by offering her cocoa.