This quote pretty much sums up why I continue to obsess over food (even though I’ve never eaten a morel, or been to Lausanne — but felt a similar way one foggy morning in Switzerland after being served a hot bowl of muesli):
…my mother and I went off on a short jaunt. We stopped for lunch in a village between Lausanne and Berne and ordered two croûtes aux morilles [toast with morels and wine cream sauce] and some local white wine. Morels are justly more expensive than plain mushrooms from the woods, but it was a special spree… and they were so delicious that with only faint demur from Mother we ordered two more of the large pieces of toast drenched with hot cream and piled with black slices of the strange phallic growths that are almost but not quite as mysteriously tantalizing as truffles. I am sure we asked for more wine. I remember that the large café cat came in and sat cleaning his paws in full view of my mother, who prided herself on being unable even to swallow with one in the room. Finally she went into an elaborate and almost Jesuitical rationalization of the plain fact that she would like to eat another croûte, or perhaps one between us. The gist of her argument (against her mother’s early training? Her damaged liver? Her lifelong war with her voluptuous nature?) was that she knew she would never taste such a beautiful thing again. It was that simple!*
*Fisher, M.F.K. With Bold Knife and Fork, 1969. New York: Paragon Books, p.185-186.