THE MUSHROOMS THAT BURN

They were good. I don’t, can’t, won’t cook (much). I can, however, concoct (which ain’t quite cookin’) some devilishly delightful stuffed mushrooms. And I did. My fridge was housing some mushrooms musing on mushiness, and I thought to myself What a potential waste! So I packed them, some Italian-seasoned bread crumbs, parmesan cheese and minced garlic (which is okay because The Husband won’t be eating them; he’s Kansing) in some baggies and embarked on my California trip.

Once at A. Sue’s, I mixed up my signature mushroom madness. Dinner was to be at Lindsay and Norm’s house, so I brought my ready-to-broil mushrooms as appetizery delectabilites (quite the nomenclator today, aren’t I?). Once broiled to the right brownish red hue, the fungus was ready for consumption. And consume I did. Out of the oven and into my mouth. And I just ran my tongue across the healing blister on the roof of my mouth.

Worth it.

Worth it.

So, so worth it.

I should sometime blog on my famed and obscene love of mushrooms. The Husband is convinced that no one on this less and less green planet of ours loves mushrooms as much as his wife does.