Nothing Says It

Reading the article, in the county paper from back home, about the morel mushrooms made us kind of homesick.  

We tried to remember exactly when was last time that we had a good 'mess' of shrooms, but neither of us could come up with a date.  We just knew for sure, it had been awhile.  

Shortly after reading the article, I was having a conversation with the youngest of our brood and mentioned our lack of mushroominess.  She and her family had found a few on their land, but most were very small.  We discussed  how cool it would be if she found some and mailed them to her dad for his birthday.  A couple of days later, she sent me a picture of what she had found. Now, the question was, how to get them from there to here.

Whenever in doubt, Google is a good place to start.  She did just that and sent me a message that the mushrooms were en-route and that the shipping method could only guarantee two days at the minimum.  She was shocked when I sent her a picture, the very next day, of the box of mushrooms sitting on my kitchen counter.  
It had arrived at the club house and one of the managers had let me know that I had a package waiting.  I walked down to the club house later in the day and Miss Stephanie had the box in her office.  I rarely use anyone's true name, but Miss Stephanie (her true name) is the epitome of a real Southern Belle and it would not do her justice to use any other name than her own.  We chatted about the day and then I asked her if she would like to see what was in the box.  She looked at me, smiled and said in her beautiful southern drawl, "Usually when there's a hole in the box, there's something alive in there."   

I laughed and proceeded to open the box.  Our daughter had done a fine job of packing the morels, complete with whatever forest matter was still clinging to them, in layers of shredded newspaper, along with a hole in the side of the box for ventilation.  I reached into the box and pulled one of the specimens out and held it up for Miss Stephanie to examine.  She wrinkled up her nose and asked what it was.  I told her of the wooded delicacy, how they only grew at certain times of the year and in certain places, but I do not think she was buying any of my story. 

On the way back to the apartment, with my box of edible gold tucked under my arm, I thought about Miss Stephanie's comment. Perhaps that was the reason the box arrived so quickly, "........a hole in the box, there's something alive in there."  Whatever the reason, nothing says "love you Daddy" like a box of fungi from home.