We were ashamed. No. 24 was inexperienced. I was the one who carried the shame. I have hunted mushrooms before. I know what they look like. And I hadn't found one, in over an hour, in a place where they should be plentiful. I began to think every walnut shell and leaf was a Morel. I began to lament my lack of mushroom skills. I even began to question my status as an Iowan.
It got pretty bad.
Of course, I may have been playing it up a bit. Being a little over the top in the drama department.
And as I was lamenting, and 24 was laughing at my ridiculous statements I looked over and realized that I had been loudly carrying on by a stinkin bee hive. Okay. What I know about bees is limited. I have seen beekeepers in the suits with smoke to soothe the bees. And I know bees are suicide stingers. And I know that bee stings hurt real bad. All of this knowledge flashed through my brain and left me frozen in horror.
Wouldn't bees be a little disturbed, needing a good smoke to calm them, if some idiot was yelling about mushrooms outside their hive? Hello. I certainly would be looking for some peace and quiet and a little something to calm my nerves if the shoe had been on the other foot...er, leg, tentacle?
I was a little afraid. However, when I calmed down enough to hear the whispered question "Can you hear them buzzing?" Good news! I couldn't....I began to back quietly, and stealthily away from the bees.
And within minutes of the clarity from the near death experience I found a mushroom. (Pictured) Mere coincidence? I think not. Then 24 found one, one about the 1/3 of the size of mine. A half hour later we had, between us, SEVEN tiny mushrooms!
The poor farmer, with an attempt to control her mirth, sent us home with our booty. And we cooked them up last night. The three of us divided up about a tablespoon's worth of deliciousness. Oh my, they were good.
But we refused to share them with the ticks that followed (er, rode) us home.