Gymnopilus Spectabilis (Big Lauging Jim)
This is a nicely written anecdote googled from Usenet:
"Entries from my diary
12:32 PM. - While walking in the woods looking for Grifola frondosa, I
come across a curious orange
mushroom growing from the base of a fallen tree. This particular
specimen is a cespitose cluster of light
orange mushrooms. There are about seven or eight mushrooms in the
cluster, with caps varying from an inch
to five inches in diameter. As I kneel to sever the stalks from their
base, my faithful mastiff Cato slobbers
impatiently. At first blush the fungi appear to be either
Jack-o-Lanterns or Honey mushrooms. I nevertheless
throw them into my collection sack for further examination.
2:05 PM - Back in my laboratory, I examine the orange mushrooms more
closely. The cap is narrowly gilled
and the attached gills extend partly down the stipe. There are
evanescent rings, and the stipes are shallowly
striate and thick. I take a spore print to determine whether they are
indeed a somewhat dwarfish version of
Omphalotus illudens. To my surprise, the spore print comes out rusty
orange. I can therefore immediately
eliminate both Armillaria mellea and Omphalotus illudens as potential
candidates since they both have white
spore prints. Reference to my Audubon Society field guide leads me
unerringly to the "Big Laughing Gym",
Gymnopilus spectabilis. All other potential candidates have been
eliminated from consideration.
3:32 PM - I call for a spot of tea and stoke my trusty Meerschaum.
I determine to consult the various authorities on the edibility vel non
of my little find. Most commentators
characterize this mushroom ominously as "toxic" or "poisonous".
Somewhat more lightheartedly, Aurora
relates the apocryphal tale of the elderly woman who accidentally
consumed G. spectabilis. She laughed
and cried uncontrollably. When the authorities came to carry her away
to the hospital, she remarked, "If this is
the way you die from mushroom poisoning, I'm all for it!" I chuckle and
puff on my pipe thoughtfully. Friends
have occasionally intimated that I am singularly lacking in humor.
5:30 PM - The sun has already set. On an ordinary Saturday night, I
would put on a stack of Haydn LPs, pour
myself a sherry and tackle a particularly challenging chess problem.
Tonight, though, I find myself looking
over at the G. spectabilis with an intense curiosity. Prudence indeed
would dictate that I should shun a
fungus so little understood, but I find myself thinking that research
on this mushroom clearly needs to be
done. Science must be served. If the mushroom be toxic, who better to
suffer the ghastly effects than a
confirmed old bachelor like myself? No one would miss me, I muse,
without bitterness. I give Cato an
affectionate stroke behind the ears. "Except you, old boy. Except you."
Cato bites me.
6:10 PM - I am resolved. I will do this thing! Gymnopilus is known to
be very bitter. I slice four carefully
measured ounces of the specimens into a sauce pan and add garlic and
olive oil. I begin to sauté over a low
heat. "Low heat", I faithfully record in my notebook. This is, after
all, science. After sautéing for a few minutes,
I gingerly take a bite of one of the caps. Still bitter. I add a splash
of Madeira to the pan. I do not record the
Madeira in my notebook. "Hardly seems pertinent to the experiment," I
comment to Cato, who seems to
slobber in agreement.
6:25 PM - I spoon the substance onto a plate, place my napkin on my
lap, and purse my lips. I hesitate for a
moment, then cut the largest mushroom into bite-size pieces. I remind
myself that I am doing this for science,
take a quick bite, chew once and then swallow without tasting. I once
made the mistake of going to a sushi
bar, and this same technique served me well. In a few minutes I am
done. I pat my mouth with my napkin,
pour myself a claret, and retire to the study.
6:45 PM - Nothing out of the ordinary has occurred.
6:50 PM - Still nothing. Could I have misidentified the species?
7:03 PM - I am beginning to feel quite peculiar. My mind seems to have
become unshackled. A pleasant - or
is it unpleasant? -sensation seems to be traveling up and down my
spine. There is a sense of inebriation, yet
I have only had one glass of claret. I feel as though I am floating. I
record my sensations in my notebook and
notice that my penmanship has deteriorated markedly since my last
entry.
I am not normally a talkative man, but I find myself wanting to work
the muscles of my lips and tongue. I call
my brother, whom I have not spoken to in years, and engage him in a
long and cordial chat. He is wary at
first, but seems to respond to my uncharacteristic warmth. I bid him
adieu and find myself inviting him and his
wife, whom I despise, to visit. The phone rings. It is a gentleman
seeking donations for my alma mater. We
come to an immediate rapport based on the fact that he apparently once
lived in the dormitory next to my old
dormitory. I realize that it has been some years since I have properly
recognized that fine institution. I agree
to donate a thousand dollars to the scholarship fund. The gentleman
rings off quickly before we have
exhausted the subject of old Bentley Hall. I find myself casting about
for other people to call.
8:00 PM - I decide to experiment with television viewing. Tingling
slightly, I turn on a rerun of the Dick van
Dyke Show. I had always enjoyed the program in my youth, but never
before had I appreciated the sheer
genius of its comic enterprise. I find each gag side-splittingly funny;
I am literally gasping for air and crying at
the virtuoso wit. Morey Amsterdam! How had I missed his perfect gift
for timing? Mary Tyler Moore? A pure
artist! Thankfully, the show ends before my gut ruptures.
I begin to think of a joke I once heard George Gobel tell. A clerk is
asking him how he spells his name. "Is
that Gobel with a "G"?" "That's right," says Gobel, "we used to spell
it with an "F", but people kept calling us
Fobel."
For some reason I cannot get this old joke out of my head, and so
hilarious does it seem every time I tell it to
myself that I cannot control the tears of laughter pouring down my
cheeks. Cato is looking at me as though I
am quite mad.
10:15 PM - I take Cato out for a walk. It feels good to breathe the
cool air and look at the moon. I have an
interesting insight into a relationship that I once had. I see clearly
now that my old flame was intimidated by
my superior intelligence. That had caused her to dump me. At the time,
it had appeared to be her secret
infatuation with the man who is now her husband. I decide to write a
letter to her explaining exactly what
went wrong with our relationship. I feel certain that once the reality
is pointed out to her, she will come
running back.
12:00 midnight - I have no appetite whatsoever. The mushroom seems to
have removed any desire for food
or, for that matter, any other sensual pleasures. There have been no
"psychedelic" symptoms. No colors
pulsating, no shapes changing, nothing like that. The effect is
entirely cerebral. It might have been nice to do
this with another member of the mycological association, I think, since
there is so much to think and talk
about. I find the roster of MAW phone numbers and begin calling people;
most of them seem strangely
groggy, irritated, and uninterested in chatting. Could there be a bug
going around?
3:00 AM - I cannot sleep. My mind is still racing madly. I believe I
conceived of the basis for a new religion a
few minutes ago, but now I seem to have forgotten it.
4:00 AM - Sleep at last.
10:00 AM - I awake refreshed. I know what I must do. I must develop a
decent recipe for Gymnopilus
spectabilis. "
