This isn’t about finding secret or hidden mushrooms. This isn’t about illegal mushrooms. This isn’t about mushrooms being the secret recipe in my favourite dish. No. This is me declaring war on mushrooms.
I’ve become accustomed to asking for dishes without mushrooms when going out for a meal. Steak, locally for example, tends to come served with onions, mushrooms and your choice of potato type. I say “no mushrooms” and the plate arrives with the steak, onion and a nice mushroom shaped hole. But I don’t mind that.
I order a dish from another restaurant which, despite not including mushrooms in the description, comes with mushrooms. So, I proceed to pick out the mushrooms, leaving them dotted around the plate and those who are with me know at this stage that it’s nothing strange (though they might benefit from an extra portion of mushrooms with their meal).
What it boils down to is simple. I hate mushrooms. Absolutely, positively, one hundred percent hate them. Can’t stand the look of them, the taste of them, the feel of them, the smell of them cooking in the air. I see them on a plate and start thinking “ah now my [whatever I’m eating] is going to taste of mushrooms”.
But – and there’s a but.
I remember, as a child, loving mushrooms. Couldn’t get enough of them. Raw, cooked, on pizza (introduced to pizza from a young age), whatever was going. I’m guessing one day something happened with the mushrooms that have put me off them altogether. I can’t for the life of me think what it might be but it’s instilled in me to dislike mushrooms. I’ve declared them evil, a blight on other vegetables, all that is wrong with the food world can be brought back to a mushroom.
So one thing you won’t find me cooking with or mention in ingredients on this blog, is mushrooms. No chance, no way, no how, not ever.
Stranger still? I’ve no real objection to sitting down and eating a bowl of mushroom soup… go figure. Surely I can’t be the only one, can I?