“Rains were good for mushrooms,” the old man said to me. Their basket overflowed. The woman scraped away dirt and gills.
“Lots of large, white ones back there.” I pointed.
“Saw ‘em. Poisonous.”
“Really?
“Enough could kill you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Doing this my whole life son.”
“Even cooked?”
“Yep.”
I thanked the man.
But for him, I’d not be able to kill two birds with one stone tonight: make dinner and ...