My sister's husband Stephen was at one time a mechanic, working on Formula Ford 2000 race cars. This required his presence at tracks where the cars were being raced, and sometimes he and other mechanics would camp out in the center of the racetrack, which was used as a paddock for horses when there were no races scheduled. The presence of the horses in the field produced wonderful matter for the growth of fungi, and the morning of the race the field was filled with a delicious aroma of mushrooms frying on camp stoves. This is where the scent of frying mushrooms takes him today (Eat your hear out, Marcel Proust).Eva, are these edible?
If anyone is up for it, leave me a short anecdote (three or four sentences) about memory in the comments. If there's one I think I can illustrate, I'll post the illustration with the story and a link to your blog. Let me make that easier - alternatively, let me know if you have a recent post relating to memory and I'll see if it's one I can illustrate.
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