As I discussed gendered nouns in other languages with someone today, he questioned why all inanimate objects could not just be neutral, which would be logically correct. Then it occurred to me that a book is neutral in German. How could that be?! They had three genders to choose from, and they assigned the male gender to a spoon, but neutral to books, as if spoons could ever have more personality than books? It's much better in Polish where the book is female. That makes more sense, especially in those olden days when books were hand copied with phallic-shaped pens or feathers, squirting semen-like ink onto the pages, as medieval monks made love to their books.
The world is changing. It all started with mindfulness becoming more popular. People started meditating, practicing yoga and tai chi, lucid dreaming. And as a side effect they started to notice the glitches in reality. Parallel to that were the developments in technology. First the Internet and WiFi and virtual reality goggles, then the chips inserted in their brains to allow virtual reality without googles and WiFi without routers. It took them a while to notice the Amish in virtual reality. Everyone knew the Amish did not have chips nor VR goggles, and yet there they were taking care of their virtual horses. How did they get there? Oh, through mindfulness, paying enough attention, finding the crack in reality, and slipping through it into VR. It was not long after that that Benjamin Truce transported his virtual violin into reality. And because that was so easy he continued practicing it until he found that he could actually move mountains. Both virtual and real ones in and out of reality. Religious movements immediately sprung up declaring that he must be either the second coming of Christ or the Anti-Christ. In vain Benjamin protested that he was not Christ at all, since he was Jewish not Christian. In response to which his followers reassured him that so had the first Christ, and they didn't hold that against him. Benjamin decided he had enough of them, and escaped through a hole in reality. He had not checked the destination though, and what he entered was neither reality nor virtual reality.
I knew my enemy better than anyone else. I had no choice. No telling what she might do otherwise. We might be driving, and I would see her eyeing that tree, and I could tell she was wondering what would happen if she crashed into it accidentally on purpose, but she could see that I could tell, and therefore wouldn't dare. Other times I knew she was tempted to just keep driving, going anywhere but our designated destination, just keep on going and never coming back. The main problem with that brilliant plan of course was that I was right there in the car with her, so she could not escape me that way. I marveled, how such an intelligent woman could be so stupid. Work. We were going to work. Once she threatened to slash my wrists. You do that and your kids are going to get hurt. You understand? Do you understand?! I repeated. Comprehension dawned in her eyes. Fear. Good, she should be afraid. Mutually assured destruction. Not worth it. I breathed a sigh of relief. At least logic could still get through to her. At work we discussed our complete lack of options. Every choice was a bad one. And it was not going to get any better. That's the crap we had to work with in a nutshell. Next day she refused to go in. Claimed she was too tired, needed a day of rest, staying in bed. She was always too tired, and always talking about it. I was tired of hearing the same old bull, so I gave in. One day, no more. She demanded solitary confinement in her bedroom. Should have known better. I couldn't allow that. There was no telling what she would do. So we lay there on the bed. I started reminding her of all the mistakes she had made yesterday, all the mistakes she had ever made. As a perfectionist, why shouldn't everyone else hold her by the same high standards? How someone that imperfect could be a perfectionist though, I would never understand. She said she wanted to nap, and would I shut up already. Language. Don't talk to me like that! How do you ever expect me to treat you better if you disrespect me like that? She didn't have a satisfactory answer for that. She never did. Fine. No rest then. Might as well get up. Go to the bathroom. The hairs that mattered had turned grey. I looked at my enemy in the mirror. And I did not like who I saw at all. That's when I realized I had to change.
Shelby did not need to even look up from her book when the phone rang, "Dad, it's for you. Tom Dryer to gush about his new boat." She wondered for the nth time whether her dad was so oblivious that he did not realize that she just gave him information she should not have known, that it was more comfortable to pretend that all was normal in his little world. Or was he well aware, and chose to not rock the boat, to not upset his fragile wife further. Her mother, who cringed whenever she heard Shelby do this, and yet at times caught herself in the last moment on her way toward a phone that had not rung yet. Her mother, for whom doors opened without being touched if she was preoccupied enough not to pay attention to what she wanted. They had never discussed it. Shelby wondered whether dad or mom would be the better choice to approach first. No, both were the wrong choice for different reasons. He wouldn't know, she clearly didn't want to know. Putting down her book, Shelby passed her dad just as he was discussing weekend plans to meet Tom at the lake this weekend with some fishing rods, and stepped outside onto the back porch. Feeling the breeze on her forearms, Shelby wondered yet again why she was different, and how. Was she just plain crazy? She had heard her dad's side of the conversation that so clearly matched what she had told him, but what if she was imagining it all including the conversation and the ringing phone? They said insanity ran in her mother's family. A grant aunt was supposedly still locked up in a mental hospital, if she was still alive. Shelby was sure no one would find it worth mentioning if she just died, just relieved she was gone, the old bat. But what if her greataunt was not mental after all, what if none of them were? What would that mean? And how could she find out? With a sigh Shelby returned inside, noticed the room was empty now, and the book she had been reading continued to lie on the couch. Almost absent-mindedly she tossed the book toward the bookshelf, where it filed itself in the empty slot between the other two books in the series.
When I was a child, I knew I could fly, and so I did because it was fun. "Don't!" I was told. "You are supposed to be a person, so act like one. People don't fly. People walk." Walking was hard, especially when I got all excited, keeping my feet firmly on the ground was a challenge. Conversely, at times the gravity of the situation weighed me down so much, I could not walk, too tired to expand the gigantic effort it took to lift my feet off the ground. Most people did not have this problem, I understood. So I started observing other people closely constantly. What I observed though was that none of the others really observed people. In fact, I was told not to do that either, even more adamantly than against the flying, observing creeped people out. "But if no one is observing, why can't I fly or at least float? Maybe no one will notice?" I was assured that they would notice. They never noticed anyone when they were doing ordinary things, and all was well. But if anyone did something extraordinary, it would have to be noticed, and disapproved, presumably in part at least because it forced ordinary people to stop and observe someone. "Do people not want to be noticed?" I enquired. "Oh, quite the contrary: they all desperately want to be noticed, and most never are. But they don't like to be observed." So I had to learn to have the proper perspective on gravity without observing people. I did it by studying up about it in books. Before long I found myself buried in high level physics research books with my nose in the book all the time. I panicked when I realized that no one else around me was doing that either. Expecting the worst, I was instead reassured that being a nerd was perfectly fine: yes, it was not ordinary, but it was easy for people to dismiss, especially since they had this handy four letter word to dismiss it with. Reading was fun but I felt the need to create, to pour out my soul and mold it into a new shape. Not allowed. I guess people didn't do that either. The closest thing to it I was allowed to do was write. So here I am, writing, while wishing I could fly.
Waiting for the light to change, I was surprised to recognize the license plate of a car from earlier in my commute. I wondered how many of these cars routinely had the same commute as mine, and yet we all remained oblivious day after day. Society had taught us not to care. Enclosed in our metal boxes, all those anonymous commuters, almost inhuman, depersonalized, passing each other without giving a damn about whether the person in that blue Honda Civic was male or female, entry level or retired, heading to work or a doctor's appointment, preoccupied or murderously angry or cheerful after morning sex. I remembered walking through our neighborhood in Austria as a kid. Everyone I passed was expected to exchange a mutual "Grüß Gott!" Greet God. The assumption being that surely they must be religious, the only question was whether they were Roman Catholic or Lutheran, but either way they would greet God and eachother. Not that these strangers actually cared about one another either. But at least there was an expectation of pretending to care when one passed eachother on foot, or else there would be offense. No one gets offended if they are not noticed in their car during their daily commute. It is time we spent alone by ourselves, while sitting between several cars in multi-lane bumper to bumper traffic. How would they react if I smiled and waved at them as we passed. How many drivers would notice? How many would wreck their brains trying to remember where they knew me from? How many would feel invaded in their personal space of their car during their commute where they had the reasonable expectation of being all alone?
Pete and I had always made sure each of us had accumulated enough rocks to bury the other if we one day decided to point our slingshots across the fence. Of course, we never actually did, too busy pretending to ignore each other's existence. This trend continued into high school, until one day Mary Ann McDonald had made it impossible for us to no longer acknowledge the danger posed by that lanky freckled awkward boy who might possibly be the first to find a good pickup line under a rock. Mary Ann was the new girl in town, having recently moved here from the big city. It was not long after that she started finding wild flower bouquets and fresh caught trout and interesting quartz crystals left on her doorstep. Each gift more extravagant than the other as if her secret admirer were competing with himself, she thought. When the school dance approached she in vain looked for hints of which of the young men who asked her out was the one. Finding none, she accepted the offer of Dr. Welsh's oldest son, who consequently pranced around like a peacock for a whole month after, lording it over the rest of us. I did not know whether Pete had found the courage to ask her out. I had figured given my stutter, my chances were close to none and thus had decided not to embarrass myself. At least after that one month, it became clear that the peacock's chances were now close to none as well, which helped somewhat, though admittedly not enough. When Mary Ann caught Pete first handed trying to sneak away from the hedgehog in a shoebox on her doorstep, I saw it happen from behind a nearby tree. I heard her mumble her thanks and him claim it was nothing. I saw him moving from foot to foot as if he really needed to pee. And then the awkward silence during which neither of them knew what to say, or how to wrap up this conversation. Finally, Pete mentioned that his dad was waiting for him. Funny he should think of that excuse given that his old man seemed to never care about his comings and goings, unless he had sent him off to the liquor store. But Mary Ann would not know that, and was clearly relieved to hear the excuse anyway. Later in the day, I happened to be in the general store, trying to find a replacement lure, since that perch the other day had bitten my old one off, and swum away with it! I was bending down, looking at the bottom shelf, when Mary Ann and Suzy came in, and I decided to stay there, to examine those lures in more detail. "Gosh, it was so embarrassing. You know in my imagination, I had all those expectations of my secret admirer. Even though I knew he must be a real boy, one of the boys in town. But I couldn't help but daydream about him. And you know, surely no one can blame me for seeing in my mind's eye the most handsome and nicest of boys. Don't get me wrong, Pete is nice. But you know, I could never think of him this way. He is just so plain and boring! Am I awful to say that?" This was followed by Suzy reassuring her that she of course was not awful, that it was totally understandable, that no one could think that way of Pete, and what a foolish boy he was of thinking otherwise. Plus who on earth could possibly think that a hedgehog was a romantic gift: they had quills. Mary Ann defended the hedgehog. It was cute after all. Unlike Pete. I thought of Pete. Thought how after that awkward exchange over the hedgehog he might think she felt something, after all she had been as awkward as he had, and that had seemed promising at the time. Somebody had to warn him. I had to warn him. I waited until the girls had left the store, paid for my lure, and headed for the creak. Not to my favorite place though, to Pete's secret place. Wasn't sure how he'd react to my sitting down and casting right there next to him. On second thought, I shouldn't have been surprised by his silence. We sat there for quite a while. Pete caught a fish. A trout. Too small. Plonk. Back into the water she went. That's when I decided to break the silence. I didn't know where to start, so I just started in the isle with the lures crouching down, "Hmm y-you know. I I was in in the sto-re, when Ma-Mary Ann ca-me in with Su-Suzy." "Was she very cruel?" He zeroed right in. "Ha How did y-you kno-w?" "I saw the look in her eyes when she looked at that hedgehog and at me. And then I saw the look in your eyes just now. Don't pitty me, Jake, girl is not worth it, if she can't appreciate a hedgehog."
- High One, permission to approach on an urgent matter? - Permission granted. What is going on? - It's the new writer. He says he has writer's block. - What?! Doesn't he realize the gravity of the situation? Hasn't anyone explained to him that the continued existence of this universe literally depends on him to keep on writing? It's not like it has to be any good. No one expects him to write well at this stage. Just keep on writing, or else. Every day he does not write, the end of the world is one day closer, and the days get shorter. - He says he has no new ideas in him. - Of course, he does not! That's the point. The ideas are not supposed to come from within him anyway. He just channels the creative chi of the universe. It's all been said before, but that is a good thing. He continues tradition and reassures us all that the laws of nature do not need to change yet. - But he wants to be creative. He wants to be original. He wants to change. - Let him, if he can! He either is no good, and will fail, and thus succeed in continuing the same old drivel that helps the world keep going round. Or he will succeed. Ah but then he is not as bad a writer as he seems. And then he could help us soar into another dimension. Hopefully one where we would no longer have to rely on writers to survive. That would be nice for a change.
Staring at the screen, I watch EP dying. No, not the cute little alien from the 1980s (although that was a great movie), Experience Project (EP), an online community scheduled to close in 17 minutes. Why am I even still on here? I suppose it is hard to break a habit, hard to say goodbye. Maybe if I stay logged in until they shut it off, maybe I can stay logged in, forgotten and able to secretly message those of my friends who still remained logged on as well? Four of them still logged in, and alas not my favorite friends, and here goes one of them, three left. A friend request comes in. Who is asking me to be his friend for the next 14 minutes? Should I open it, and risk seeing one final dick picture? Too late to report it if it is, what are they going to do, delete his account? I open it. The message promises a new online community opening soon elsewhere, and invites me to join them instead. Ah a scammer, trying to get my email address - I ignore it. Despite the dick pics, and the pedophiles, and the other women who refuse to be criticized as a protected minority in their own support group, this was a good community. It felt like a cosmopolitan metropolis. A support group for everyone no matter what they wished support with, poetry or fitness fanaticism or battling depression. It was a place to log into when one could not sleep in the middle of the night, and get a personal message from a friend, who cared enough to ask whether you were ok at 3am. Until his account got deleted by the admins for too many external links. Leaving the pedophiles and cheating women, but deleting the caring friend. Still for many of us it was a virtual home, among those seeking enlightenment and those who had recently lost someone and those desperate teens speaking of suicide. You never knew whether they were just desperately melodramatic. If they never logged in again, did they finally find a life, or loose one? Were they even really teens? Yup, I am sure some of them were, cannot fake that level of immaturity, no matter how good one is at writing fiction. Some of us were genuine, maybe too genuine, baring our souls underneath the cloak of anonymity to strangers whom we hoped to never meet in real life. Some made a mistake of meeting their strangers. Rumor has it that part of why EP is closing was due to an FBI investigation into a murder of one member of this online community by another in real life, after they actually met. So it took a murder. The pedophelia was not enough? All those countless teen girls insecure enough to post their photos asking strangers to give them their honest opinion whether or not they are pretty, and those old enough to be their grandpas responding that "yes, you are gorgeous. Please private message me." Nothing quite actionable there unless they did private message, and the FBI got access to what was said then, maybe. I keep returning to the dark side of EP. Perhaps that is what I want to talk about because the good memories hurt too much, now that it is almost gone, should not focus on the good parts, lest you wish you had been there, and you can't join any more. Not enough time. It took more than 3 minutes to join.
I am tired. Stop it! You know what happens to us when you keep repeating that. So just stop it. Do you think it is tired or "tired" anyway? Hard to tell. I will put on the red blouse just in case for added confidence, and these fuzzy comfy socks (so soft and cozy), and the grey pants to match our grey hair. You know, those socks are blue, and do not go at all with this red shirt. Fine! I'll change shirts to blue for the hint of blue that I am feeling today. Happy now?!
Standing in the crowded hall, I was vaguely aware of the ornate opulence which on any other day would have fascinated me. I perceived that the strangers around us were speaking in different tongues many of which I would not have comprehended, even if they had not been speaking in hushed whispers. One could not talk out loud in these halls, out of reverence and out of fear, plus no one wished to miss the chance to hear their names being called in indication that the requested audience had been accepted. There would be no second chance for missed opportunities. I considered briefly the advisability of speaking up, and causing a distraction. However, I feared that the consequences would not be what I desired. They never were, no matter what I ever did. I glanced at my mother towering over my cowered form, her shoulders set, and an anticipatory gleam in her eye. Today was the day she had been waiting for. The day when I would become fully hers. That's when I heard them call my mother's name. And alas she heard it too. Swiftly she proceeded to the opened doorway, pulling me roughly by my arm, in a way that would have made it impossible for me to walk alongside her of my own free will even if I had wanted to. Thus, we entered. She was seated in the center of the small chamber, and I could tell that if she had been standing up, she would not have been tall. Her petite body contrasted sharply with the air of her presence. The high one commanded us closer. "What is it that you desire?" she asked in a voice that should have been booming. My mother then asked for permission to whisper a name in her ear. Permission was granted. I strained my ears in an effort to catch it, but alas no chance. My mother backed up again, and explained, "This is my only daughter. I wish her to have this name." Knowing another's name could give you influence over them. Naming provided control. Defending oneself required knowing one's own name. As my mother she had a right to my respect. I could not publicly contradict her. If the high one asked whether I agreed to the renaming, I could thus not say no. Knowing this the high one would undoubtedly not even bother to ask. My fate was sealed. I waited resigned, and bowed my head, as the high one addressed me, no doubt about to start the renaming ceremony. It took me a while to process the meaning of the six words I heard, "You can choose your own name."
William and I were an odd pair of friends, given how little we had in common. We met in our dorm's kitchen: I liked to cook, and William liked to complain about the cafeteria food. The smell of what I cooked attracted him: he said it smelled like I could become a chef at a five star restaurant. My mama had ensured that all seven of her sons knew how to cook well. She used to say, what's the point of doing it, if you don't do it well. I offered to teach William how to cook, but he was not interested in learning. In fact, that was a pretty consistent description of his whole college career. Something else we had in common: neither of us really wanted to be there. I would have rather had staid in the army, but can't break a promise to one who already rests in peace, and cannot take it back. Not that my mama would have likely taken it back even if she had lived. She was not a woman to change her mind, and she was looking forward to one son of hers being the first in our family to graduate college. When she had found out about the army scholarship program, that's when she had made me promise I would take advantage of this opportunity. In her eyes, if I had not it would have been a loss of a huge fortune for our family, since college cost a huge fortune, and thanks to the military it was as if I had gotten this fortune handed to me, as long as I applied and studied and did it well. The army had been a good fit for me. In part thanks to my old man teaching me how to defend myself even before I joined. I was not someone to mess with, at least no one messed with me twice. I marveled at how naive William seemed at times, like he had lived on the moon these past couple of decades. No skills to speak of other than his charm. He was the third generation in his family to attend this alma mater, and his family had made a donation that had earned them a plaque on the new school of business administration building. If there was one thing William was good at was making friends, ensuring he got invited to all the parties. He seemed a likable sort, and quickly persuaded me that cooking for two was not more of a hardship than cooking for one. My mama and the army had both taught me to share with those who were in my family or my unit, so sharing with a fellow student came naturally for me. Usually he did not have time to stay and chat long though, but would grab his food and go to his next social obligation. I used to jokingly ask whether he could find enough time to study between parties, and his answer was usually just a laugh and a wave. Given how we were not all that close, I was surprised when William approached me about joining him at his family estate for a long weekend. His parents were away for a cruise, and we could have the huge house all to ourselves. He told me about the gourmet grocery store nearby, and how he would take me there, and I could choose any ingredients I liked, his treat, to make those dishes I had always wished I could afford to make. We would have plenty of booze, a comfortable couch, and his basement featured a large screen TV with surround sound stereo. To help us eat all the goodies I prepared, he would invite a few friends over. But not to worry, since he knew I was not a party animal unlike him, I could just chill in the basement, watch TV, eat and drink, while he entertained upstairs. That way we could both get what we wanted, no? It was true that I preferred a more quiet entertainment. It was not due to PTSD, no problems there. But having grown up in a large family, I learned to appreciate the quiet when I could get it, which growing up had been almost never. That's part of what I enjoyed in the army, the quiet times when my mates and I prepared and worked alongside eachother without any need for exchanging words. I knew that was not William's preference, he never could stay quiet, but somehow that did not bother me so much, most of the time his chatter could blend into the background noise, since his interests were not mine, but both of us knew it, there was no expectation that I actually listen to his chatter, which suited me just fine. So I accepted his plan for the weekend. The first part of it went as planned. The gourmet store had all I could desire and more. The cooking in the well stocked kitchen of his parent's mansion was a special treat, I admit. It was close to halftime in the game I had been watching when she came down. She took one look at me, sitting there, eating and drinking and watching. She didn't say a word to me, but instead turned around and addressed him, "Billy dear, the help is here watching your TV and helping himself to your stuff, while we are running out of cocktail shrimp upstairs!" At first I was almost willing to forgive the mistake the bimbo made, obviously she had seen the color of my skin and my non-designer clothes so obviously out of place, and I figured William had failed to mention that I was his friend and how come he happened to have this great food. Back in the field we had learned to make similar assumptions, also based on color of skin, and on what they were not wearing (U.S. Army uniforms). Of course, if they had come running toward us with a machine gun pointed toward us, that had made their identity extra clear with no need to ask further questions. Similarly the deer in the headlights look I was faced with now made the situation extra clear too, with no need to ask. My mistake, it was I who had made the wrong assumption here, not the bimbo, who in hindsight had not seemed surprised to see me, just surprised about my activities. "More cocktail shrimp, ma'am. Coming right up, ma'am." If there had been anyone there who knew me, they would have heard the dangerous undertone in my voice. With the fluid motion of a trained soldier, I got off the couch, passed the statue of her boyfriend continuing to just stand there on the stairs, into the kitchen, and out the back door. One thing the army had taught me was to always know my exit route, just in case.
It took us a while to realize that Charlotte had disappeared, and even then we did not know whether she had just moved on, perhaps back to Princeton which she had often talked about. We missed her because she had always been kind to the kids. Always bringing them a present, sometimes a leaf or a bottle cap or a bookmark she had made or a something she had knitted. She was always knitting and donating things to the homeless. She preferred to give than to receive, perhaps in part to keep her dignity despite her state. Always volunteering with the homeless instead of just receiving the same services. She talked of her life, of how she taught at Princeton. And often one wondered how much of those stories was knitted out of thin thread. Somehow, it was easier to believe that Sam had fought in an unnamed war, because homeless veterans were not unusual. Professors on the other hand were expected to publish or perish, and not survive on the street. They were expected to be book smart not street smart. And Charlotte was definitely street smart. She knew who to avoid, and would warn us of them. We did not know where she slept, but definitely not in a shelter because there it was too easy for a fight to pick you. When she stopped coming around, we did not even know where to check. Of course, we hoped she was ok, but in a way it is more comforting when there is a body or a note with an explanation. Like with Liam, at least they found his body, though no explanation there. After his death, his family had come for the funeral. That was quite a surprise. We never even knew he had a family. A married sister with three kids all immaculately dressed. Unlike Liam himself who never had been. They did not really look alike, Liam and his sister. Charlotte had never been immaculately dressed either. We had to pretend we did not notice when her underwear showed or her smell. It would not have been polite to notice, and she valued politeness. Sam thought Charlotte may have been an angel, who had now moved on, and none of us could find any argument against that. He found a chrysalis shaped like an angel around the time when Charlotte was gone, and he thought that was a sign. It was the best sign we had.
I call him dream man, because listening to him is like trying to follow the logic of a dream, trying to interpret a consistent plot, which may or may not be there. I consider listening to him a duty, a community service, in exchange for his service. " My mother was a teacher because bringing up kids is important, so they don't grow up as criminals, and wind up in jails which are overcrowded, like the crowds of tourists in line for the Renwick Gallery, have you seen that line? Right next to the White House where the President lives. They have got to have some serious security there, cause a terrorist blowing that up would have an impact that was felt all over the nation, worse than a hurricane which is more localized, and affects those in the community, who have to rebuild. Had a building job once, not a bad work when the weather is nice, but when the wind gets strong and you do not have enough clothes, and not enough money to buy clothes, and not enough prospects to get more, cause in this economy, so many people are homeless, including many of us veterans. It's an atrocity when a nation does not take care of veterans, cause we risked everything for our nation. None of us would have hesitated to risk our lives for women and children back home. Was not easy for the women folk either, having to work extra hard, and needing to take care of the kids all by themselves. And those kids were more trouble too with their fathers not there to keep them in line, and they knew it. Got to discipline kids to keep them out of trouble. Like joining gangs or when they are old enough to first drive, street racing. Have you ever driven a race car? I have, and let me tell you, it can be a powerful feeling, behind that steering wheel, going as fast as you can. The greatest danger is becoming overconfident, thinking one is invincible like God. That's when accidents happen. Knew a guy who got burned so hard in a race car accident, they could not save his legs, though he had the best doctor's in the country, but there comes a time when there is nothing you can do, and then one's got to accept God's will."
When I found out that the CSA (Confederate States of America?) would deliver to us some fiddlehead ferns, I was all excited to try a new delicacy. "Be sure to boil or steam your fiddlehead ferns for at least 10 minutes to neutralize most of the poison." I read on the Internet. "Do not eat more than a few times a year, since even after boiling some poison remains. High in antioxidants, omega 3 and omega 6 fatty acids." Interesting combination of poisonous and nutritious. "Used in Japanese and Korean delicacies." I read further, so I asked a neighbor about it, who praised the taste of the delicacy, and reminisced fondly how his Korean mother in law would brave the steep hills of nearby forests to collect these delicate fern fronds. Koreans must have better relations with their mothers in law to trust them to boil poisonous ferns long enough. My coworker who served in Korea, long after the war, at a military base, did not remember the ferns, but sang praises of those huge mushrooms that grow on the side of trunks of oak trees there. "They look disgusting, but I thought what the heck, I'll try it. And once I bit into it, I have never tasted anything that delicious." The mushrooms that is, not the ferns. Were the mushrooms also slightly poisonous I wondered, served to foreign military? Even before the ferns arrived, I could not help wonder about their taste. So I googled it, of course. Someone described it as tasting like a cross of asparagus and spinach with a hint of mushroom. I like shrooms. Reminded me yet again of my coworker's description of the best food he possibly ever tasted, those shrooms in Korea. And my mouth prepared to water in preparation for culinary orgasm. Now I picked a fairly simple recipe that could not go wrong: steamed the coiled up ferns for at least 10 minutes, and then added a garlic butter to them. They were right about the taste: much like asparagus crossed with spinach in a spiral shape. The hint of mushroom though required a more refined palate or stronger imagination than mine. You'd think garlic makes everything taste better, and the spice added by the promise of neutralized poison should have done the trick. Next time I will buy asparagus and spinach I think, and add a bit of almonds for a hint of poison. Let the foreigners keep their ferns, but oh how I wish I could try those mushrooms that grow on the sides of oak trees in Korea!