I saw this book on the new releases shelf at the library, judged it by the cover, and grabbed it impulsively: a memoir with something to do with mushrooms? Obviously, I had to read it.

In this memoir, the author artfully weaves together poignant memories, vivid food descriptions, and reflections on nature. I read almost half of it in one sitting over a weekend while listening to Noah Kahan's album, Stick Season, on repeat. I couldn't get enough of her stories about walking in the forest and gathering what she could find. There’s a reverence for wildness that reminded me of Late Migrations by Margaret Renkl; a lushness and sense of teeming that reminded me of World of Wonders by Aimee Nezhukumatathil; as well as melancholy and mycophilia that reminded me of The Way Through the Woods by Long Witt Loon.

The author forages more than mushrooms to serve to her guests at her inn, and this book made me reflect the act of foraging: knowing what's in season, paying attention as you wander, collecting what you can find (but not too much and not all of it), and using it in some way. I thought about what I want to look for when I move through the world, what is best for me gather and keep, and how I can put what I have to good use.

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I spent a lot of the pandemic with my binoculars, appreciating what bird watchers did. I knew why Dad liked watching the birds -- it wasn't just waiting to die, like he'd once said retirement was all about -- sitting in a chair, watching the birds, and waiting to die. The truth was watching birds was more like wanting to live. 

When I was foraging lots of my fears went away.

Sitting and writing sometimes looked a lot like sitting and doing nothing.