It's honey mushroom season, and my yard and woods are speckled with these wonderful prolific mushrooms, which grow on dead or dying wood. In the grass, they are usually clinging to tree roots. In the woods, I find them around stumps or fallen logs, even sometimes on living trees that won't be living much longer. They grow in bunches--find one, and you find fifty--and after every morning run, I come back with a pail of them. (Yes, I go running while carrying a bucket. I also run in hiking boots and jeans, which is I why I never, never run on the road. I prefer private visual absurdity. Anyway, I live in a forest. Why run anywhere else?)

The first few batches are drying on trays on my porch. Yesterday's batch I sauteed in grapeseed oil (tasteless so as not to limit future use) and froze. That way I can break off a chunk and thaw them out in butter or olive oil or whatever.

Even though I have lived in these parts for two decades, I cannot get over the joy of foraging in my very own forest. Fiddleheads, berries, mushrooms: I take such pleasure in them all.

So tonight, while the Vegetarian Mushroom Disliker holds hands at a high school football game, Tom and I will eat chicken with mushrooms and fresh tomato sauce; chard fried with garlic; and boiled red potatoes with dill. And then we will go outside and sit next to a campfire and pet the delighted dog and drink cognac and wear coats and admire the Milky Way and listen to Ruckus prowl around in the underbrush. Happy autumn.