THEY come by night, billowing from the damp earth, silent, swift and smooth. One moment, there’s nothing, the next, discreetly bulbous beauty, their caps a shiny umber, their stalks as stout as swine. For the hunter, there’s little time to linger. We’re not alone in our adoration, for the cep is the most majestic of mushrooms —something those slugs and bugs know only too well.
My mother says this year is the best she’s ever seen, in this part of Scotland, at least. As we creep through the pine forests, baskets swinging from our arm, we spot one, then another, and another after that. The excitement is intense, our eyes gleaming with greedy delight. My son races ahead, trousers tucked in socks to avoid those infernal ticks, clambering up banks, teasing the ceps gently from the soil. He cuts off their base and chops the stub into small pieces, scattering them back from where they came. It gives hope for more next year. Just as my mother taught him. Just as she was taught by Antonio Carluccio, that late, great master of mycology.
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