It’s 2016.  Poisonous mushrooms are easily identifiable, and as far as I know, not sold in supermarkets  My brain knows that mushrooms are edible, my heart knows it too.  But some instinct deep within me says “STAY AWAY!”  I don’t know why I have this subconscious distrust of mushrooms, but it’s there.  Maybe one of my ancestors died from eating a poisonous one and this is evolution trying to keep me alive.  Before today I never had a mushroom.  After today I will never have another mushroom.  I was at a get together and the host prepared stuffed mushrooms.  I was there fresh from this class, and with a cocktail in hand I asked myself, “what’s the worst that could happen?”, if anything I had a drink to kill the taste.  Something stuffed with breadcrumbs shouldn’t taste so bad.  The flavor isn’t what killed me, more so the texture; a rubbery, pseudo-meaty, almost-gelatinous blob from hell.  Darwin was trying to keep me around because my first instinct was to remove this thing from my body.  But I was at a party and not the Galapagos so I washed it down with some Tito’s and complimented the flavor.  If I’m not in class next week, you know why.