Mushrooms

Mushrooms Part 1

If you had a free day and you wanted to get a real extreme for inexpensive, I would advise you to join a group of mushroom pickers. Silent hunting - you know what a wonderful pastime. It occupies, like fishing, one of the first places in the loss of time ... and mortality. A kind of Russian roulette. Where, after eating the harvest, the final is not known. Will stick specifically or carry.

  Your trip begins very unusual. You rise on a day off, neither light nor dawn, mentally mocking at those nonsense who are now lying in their warm beds and who are not aware of the true spirit of romanticism. Take the metro to the railway station, which at that time is already boiling like a boiler, find your group of mushroom pickers and standing in line at the suburban ticket office, buy tickets and after a long search, finally find your train, for some reason standing on the siding.

  But this does not bother you at all with the motley crowd of mushroom pickers, summer residents, fishermen and just vacationers who decided that there is something to rest in the forest, on the shore of a lake or a river, that they lack so much in the city. Together with them, you take the car by storm and take a few wooden seats, similar to garden benches, take a sigh of relief. It happened. The first, but by no means the last step to a complete rest has been taken.

  In the languid expectation, half an hour passes and now the long-awaited tu-tuuuu comes from the head of the train. Finally set off. Outside the window rush the city outskirts, summer residences and miraculously preserved timid groves. So an hour passes ... And here it is. You go outside the building of the ancient station, apparently built by Batu himself, and the whole crowd, in anticipation of outdoor activities and a successful quiet hunt, heading (past the ruined church, which the restorers cannot reach), along the path into the depths of the forest. Having received, from the one who walks ahead, several times in the face with branches, you learn the first lessons of walking in the forest - they don't click in the forest, and the biting mosquitoes also make their contribution to your training.

  The path cleverly winds between the trees, from time to time resting; now in anthills, then in piles of bear shit, and yet in an hour, with legs buzzing with fatigue and a swollen face, you finally go out into the forest clearing, near which a small forest lake is snugly located - according to local legend, some city drowned in it .

  The most desperate of the mushroom pickers resting, run to look for its ruins and immediately disappear into the misty haze of the dense forest. And for a long time yet heard, from somewhere from afar, their hysterical cries for some kind of ay-au, to which no one pays attention. People came to rest, and not hang around in the woods to no avail.

  Others make a fire and believing that they have already completed the main program for the search for mushrooms, they begin to cook kebabs. Over time, they are joined by people who found some mushrooms in the forest and set out to fry them immediately. Fairly counting on the fact that you can eat anything you want with alcohol. Wisely noticed - you can eat everything that grows in the forest, but only once. What eventually they are convinced of, having gone to the bushes after a meal, to frighten forest inhabitants with their eruption. Not everyone returns to the fire. What can you do about the costs of outdoor activities. Wake up, wake up, then come.

  The wisest of the mushroom pickers are young lovers who, due to the lack of their own car and separate living space, have to mate in the forest thicket, like wild forest animals. In addition to the asses and the goblin bitten by the vile and mosquitoes, who spy on the process, the forest no longer threatens them. Happy, fucked up and rested in the evening, they return by train to the city, to their loving halves. Having bought a couple of kilograms of mushrooms from grandparents who are no longer interested in sex. Honestly, I wouldn't eat those mushrooms, you never know where they were collected. Your health is more expensive.

  And it's a completely different matter when he himself was picking mushrooms. He brought it home, dumped it in a basin, poured water and cleaned it from dirt, put them in a frying pan. But they are shkvarcha and spit out with butter, on which you fry them, slowly brown, promising you a royal snack with your homemade cognac. Yum yummy.

 It would not hurt to invite a neighbor ... well, do you need someone to try them first?