Back to earth

I don't know what's wrong with me. For the past three days, I've been a positive mess. On Thursday it started with weepiness, followed by the feeling of having been hit by a truck-ness on Friday. And today, finally, I found myself standing at the edge of a full-blown panic attack. 

Possible explanations include: a) exhaustion over entertaining "guests" (my mom and sister hardly qualify as far as I'm concerned, but still...) for the past three weeks, b) saying goodbye to the people I love over and over again (mom and sister, again), and c) standing in cold, wet, too tight jeans on a tower overlooking water rides that I had no intention of getting on (just my sister's fault this time). 

But my money's on option d) I feel lost. Lost in a way that no map in the world could help. And I can't blame anyone but myself for that.

You see, I don't have a plan. Normally, it's the plans in this world, the routine of everyday life, that makes people feel stifled, downtrodden even. But not me. No siree. It is the free-flowing nature of my days now, the complete lack of a plan - even one I don't stick to - that, when I really think about it, makes me feel like I'm suffocating. 

The small, rational part of my brain, burrowed deep in my mind behind the stuff more than one person has kindly referred to as my "active imagination," I know that once school starts in two weeks, I will have so many plans, so much on my agenda, that I'll be yearning for these carefree days filled with lounging and wandering and reading. But for the time being, as I realized this morning, the next TWO YEARS seem completely, irrevocably empty. 

Gah! Aren't overactive imaginations supposed to take care of made-up problems like this? Shouldn't I be able to conjure a fun idea of what the next two years of my life will be like? Ha, one would think. But instead, my mind keeps jumping ahead, devising little routines and schemes for my post-J-school life. And two years can't help but feel like an incredibly looong time. 

When the freak-out set in, I knew I had to get out, to make myself busy somehow. To distract myself with the things I love most. I grabbed a book, some cash and headed to the Berkeley Farmer's Market. 

Considering this is my fourth Saturday living just a short walk from the market, I have no excuse for not having visited before. And after this morning's stroll, I'm sure I won't let a month pass before visiting again. 

There was so much that I wanted, but, knowing even my own seemingly limitless appetite's limitations, I promised myself to buy only one thing, and it had to be one thing that I really, really wanted. Something that would make all my worries disappear, even for just a few moments of epicurean pleasure. 

When I saw the morels, looking all spongy and dirty in their little baskets, I knew I had to have them. I kept a straight face as I paid for them, but my eager sniff as I took the little brown bag bulging with little goodies so betrayed my excitement that I may as well have been standing in the middle of Center Street, jumping up and down and clapping my hands. I'd never had morel mushrooms before, but I'd heard a lot about them; in my mind, they were practically magic, exactly what I needed.

Despite the hedonistic flurry of images depicting sordid trysts between my morels and a sizzling pan of butter, I didn't rush back to my kitchen. I placed the little brown bag of hidden treasure into my tote, and let them work their witchery over me. 

For hours, I sat reading and sipping iced coffee and reading more and finally finishing said book, sometimes sneaking a peek into my bag, drooping lazily in a bed of cool grass, to make sure my morels were still there. For hours more still, I left them sitting on my kitchen counter as I wrote mindlessly and chatted on the phone. I left them waiting, and waiting a little more. And then...

My morels were gone in a flash of silence interrupted only by sporadic sighs of satisfaction. I may even have stomped my foot on the ground, but I was home alone so it's hard to know for sure. What I do know is their dark, woodsy flavor, coaxed out by a heavy dose of Lurpak, brought me back to earth. Nary a sign of panic to be found tonight. 

That's high praise for a scrubby little fungus, I know. But sometimes all a girl needs for a whole lot of magic is a little imagination. 

*** 

Morels, simply

For the spell they cast, these fellas are far from "simple." But they are absolutely scrumptious with just a bit of salt and butter - what could be easier?

1/4 pound fresh morels

1 tablespoon unsalted butter

Salt, to taste

Use a small brush to dust off the mushrooms. Cut them in half and brush out the insides. (Give them a quick rinse if necessary, but only if absolutely necessary.)

Melt the butter in a skillet over medium-high heat. Add the mushrooms, stirring occasionally as they cook. When they begin to release some of their juices, reduce the heat to medium and continue to cook until the mushrooms reabsorb the water they released. 

Add salt to taste, and serve over toast of your choice. (Let me recommend an English muffin: the nooks and crannies sop up all the buttery juices, making sure nothing is lost without the eater's having to resort to licking the plate. Though if the mood strikes, by all means...)