ber

I hear the summer has been unusually dry in Finland. No mushrooms. Few berries. Your suddenly middle-aged Finnish mother (you know, that one) claps her hands together and bewails the scarcity of homemade preserves that must inevitably follow. The bears are hungry, sniffing about the bushes that have always offered forth tiny, sweet berries, their black lips and snouts finding nothing on the branches and under the leaves.

Here I have a few mushrooms, chased around a sautee pan, peppered, and spread over some pasta. I don't imagine they will be enough to get me through the winter either.