by Harold Burch

At certain times during the year, mushrooms are quite plentiful in the pasture where we kept our cattle. My father always knew which mushrooms were good to eat. I was never that sure which were the right ones.

After putting the cows in the pasture, my father would return with his hat full of mushrooms and tell my mother, “Its time for a snack.” My mother would wash them and put them in the frying pan and my parents would have their snack. I never did like mushrooms in my younger days.