parable of the mushroom
Years ago when adulthood was a new experience, a friend was cooking dinner for her new boyfriend and I. As she was in the midst of the meal prep, she realized that she had forgotten to pick up mushrooms and her beau gallantly headed off to the nearest store and returned with the missing ingredient. As I arrived, my friend was in panic mode, her boyfriend looked puzzled, and a carton of mushrooms sat on the counter between them. The mushrooms on the counter were fresh and she needed the canned variety. “Fresh mushrooms taste better,” he explained with honest confusion. “But the recipe calls for canned,” she wailed, “and I don’t know what to do with the fresh ones.”
The panic to which my friend witnessed is the inevitable learning curve. We cannot shift from canned to fresh, no matter how yummy, in the middle of a dinner party with no prior experience. My friend didn’t know ratios, textures or seasoning for the fresh variety and was not comfortable serving a meal that was unfamiliar. Even when we don’t mind practicing a new skill, rarely do we want an audience for the first run. Ever gallant, her beau headed back to the store for a can of ‘shrooms.
My friend and her boyfriend eventually married and are still living happily ever after. I am quite sure that she uses fresh mushrooms routinely these days but I suspect that important keys to their happiness were revealed in an otherwise sticky situation all those years ago. What my friend brought was an ability to state what she needed without malice or manipulation, no matter how apparently ridiculous. Her beau was likewise clear in both his preference for the fresh mushroom and in his respect for her discomfort. He neither deflated his own values nor judged her, he simply went back to the store. Dinner was delicious and the rocky moment became a piece of a strong foundation.
The irony of course, is that fresh mushrooms not only taste better than the canned ones (indeed, an all together different food!) but they are also significantly more expensive. What we reach for, what we understand ourselves to need, may not always be the most flavorful. Indeed we may eschew a luxury for the bland taste of the familiar in any number of life venues. With an instinct for convenience, familiarity, and economy, the canned experiences of life often trump the delicacies.
I thought of the mushrooms today as Micah and I picked out a container of fresh mushrooms, prewashed and pre-sliced. My hunch is that were I to make the effort to swing past the farmers market and pick up fresh produce, wash it and slice it, the flavors would be even better. Instead I reach for the familiar package that offers an easy meal prep. But there is an uncalculated cost in my reach.
Perhaps I am mindful of the mushroom parables because my world is otherwise so still. For a brief stint I seem to be floating in the middle of my life, the middle of summer, the middle of America and it feels so remarkably calm that even the choice between mushrooms offers depth. The near perfect summer breeze of course makes all of life seem deliciously sweet.
It would be tempting to build a tent in this space of my life where the waters are still. To be sure, I hope that I not only receive this space with gratitude but also learn from the wisdom that brought me here. When Peter witnessed nirvana, with Jesus in prayer, he begged to stay in the place of wonder forever. I imagine a very gentle if firm-voiced Jesus guiding Peter to the hard truth that moments of bliss cannot be preserved for later enjoyment. The real deal is fresh and in the moment and, if my friends’ witness is to be believed, free from judgment and guile.
Yet in the interest of balance, I would point out that pre-washed and already sliced variety has afforded a glorious few minutes in the shade of the tree in which to ponder the lessons of the mushrooms. And maybe it is balance, most of all, that we humans need.
