One October day more than a decade ago in a Masovian forest, my two grandmothers and I searched for wild mushrooms that thrive in its soft, moist ground. I knew nothing about which mushrooms were safe to eat and which ones were not. My job involved holding a plastic shopping bag that over the many minutes of traipsing through the forest filled up with aromatic fungi of various dimensions and colours. Grandmothers Fila and Hela with small knives cut the stalks of mushrooms that they knew from lifelong experience we could eat and enjoy. The roots they always left in the ground.
In 2010 my wife Sandra and I were in Masovia, Poland visiting my mother and Grandma Fila. Sandra and I live in Ontario, Canada. Travelling to Poland is always a big trip for us. In Masovia we were all staying in my mother’s small wooden cottage. Grandma Hela unfortunately could not be with us that day. She was resting at home in Warsaw.
My mother’s thick, ceramic soup plates with their tiny imperfections were on the veranda table. It was May and warm. I could now smell the potent aroma of Grandma Fila’s mushroom soup. Mom was warming it up on the stove.
Timely as always, Grandma Fila appeared in my mother’s cottage garden carrying two bouquets of lilacs. She had her own garden nearby. I took the flowers from her and placed them in a vase already full of other lilacs and lilies.
“I’m bringing the soup,” my mom said. The soup was in its original pot from Grandma Fila’s kitchen in Warsaw. Grandma Fila having washed her hands was already sitting at the table. I went into the bedroom where Sandra had gone to rest; she was awake. The rich aroma of the soup had gently roused her from the unconscious.
When we stepped onto the veranda again, Grandma Fila and mom were waiting for us. The pot of thick golden-brown soup was in the centre of our little family circle; steam rose from it like a specter.
We poured the broth into our plates and lifted our spoons to begin eating. I was the last one to dip my spoon in the soup. From the other side of the table Grandma pointed out that she’d made the soup with wild mushrooms. I knew this already without her having to tell me. The fragrant steam and my first sip of broth brought that mossy forest from over decade ago with its mushrooms and my traipsing grandmothers right back to me; I could see the past unfold before me as we continued our meal.
Photo: mazury.info.pl