I was the only one in my family of five who would not eat mushrooms.
My mother was a
good great cook. She loved mushrooms and she cooked with them a lot. She used to make a delicious homemade spaghetti sauce but she always put huge sliced mushrooms in it. Ewww. I always picked them out. She used to shake her head at me when she’d see one side of the edge of my plate piled high with the discarded mushrooms. She would say, “Just try them, you’ll like them!” I tried them and I despised them. Eating them made me gag. Writing this post is making me gag. I just don’t like mushrooms.
Then along came the days when I began dating the man who would become my husband. He came over to my parents’ house one night for spaghetti dinner and he too picked out the mushrooms (after first leaning over and asking me in a gentle whisper if it would offend my mother if he picked the mushrooms out). I smiled and told him to go right ahead, that she was used to me picking them out. My mother (who already loved this man like a son) shook her head when she saw the two of us pushing the mushrooms aside, and then said, “You two weirdos were made for each other and deserve each other.”
Yep, we are two peas in a pod when it comes to food and eating. Hubby and I love supreme pizza but sorry, the mushrooms have to go. So we pick them off too.
Don’t try to sneak those fungi in on us. Our mushroom radar will detect them every time.