It's that time of year again.
It's the time of year when I head into the forrest with a purpose of mind.
The time of year when I have to stir my memory and get the old brain tuned in.
The time of year when I need to recall all those little secret woodland places.
The secret spots where my favourite woodland mushroom grows.
A beautiful yellow colour.
The colour of egg yolk.
The strong fluted stem.
The wonderful scent of Abricot.
I use the French spelling.
My French friends Showed me how to find them.
My French friends showed me how to cook them.
I'll give them a spruce up with a fine soft brush.
I'll check each one for authenticity.
I will cook them in butter.
A low slow heat.
A pinch of salt.
Not too much.
Whisk in some eggs.
And eat with good bread.
And good company.
My hands feel chilly.
The sun is loosing it's strength.
A fine treat before the winter.
I almost can smell the fresh and unmistakable scent... Bon appétit!ReplyDelete
They went down well, Sarah loves them.Delete
Good to hear from you Eugen... J
J´aime ta scripture absolutement! It is poetry and transports the poetry of being out there, so ´scuse me, I´ll have to quit the box and find myself some, too!;-) Thanks for posting, real good writing!ReplyDelete
I'm happy you picked up on the poetry Fimbulmyrk. I wanted to give the description of these wonderful morceaux another dimension. I'm glad it worked... Good to hear from you... JDelete
No bother at all;-). Guess I´ll get on your nerves ;-) a little more often now... great blog you have!Delete
You're always welcome... J ;-)Delete