Last Supper
mushroom wellington with parmesan asparagus and crispy potatoes
The kitchen countertops are covered with flour, cut vegetables spill over mise en place. Music is playing in my ear bud; “take Me to another place, to another land, make me forget all the hurt, let me understand your plan … Help me understand,” my head nods to the beat. “I am still thirsty,” I sing out loud.
“What are you making,” she says, looking at the mess; “it smells delicious.”
“Mushroom Wellington,” I reply, “with onions, spinach, Sherry, and a little balsamic vinegar.”
“Mushrooms and Onions, but no beef?”
“I have tried to stop eating meat, so this is vegetarian.”
“Mustard?”
“Dijon,” I reply. “You sure you do not want to make this?”
“No,” she says. “You know I never cook.”
I score the two pastries, brushing with an egg wash, topping one with fresh rosemary, and place both into the oven at 400 degrees (200 degrees for my Australian friends.) After wiping off the butcherblock, we both squat to look into the oven, waiting for the golden crusts starting to turn a beautiful golden. Thirty minutes later I remove the baking tray from the oven. The table is set, the guest cards are in place; linen napkins next to atomic pattern ware; wine glasses are offered, even if the cork will remain and none may be offered. The two alabaster candles are lit, the silver sticks is polished. I stand back; It is beautiful.
“Why did you make two?” she asks, reaching to take off a corner from the pastry without the rosemary.
“No, not that one,” I blurt out, running into the kitchen, and remove each from the separate trays, off of parchment paper, placing onto a separate plates, carefully placing each near the head of the table.
But before we eat, I should go back a few days.
I admit that I have been having a hard time lately, call it depression, grief, or malaise. I just have not been myself, and I apologize. But the other night an article came across my feed, the scroll of newsworthy information dictated by my phone; it stopped my scroll, something called a “Super Shroom,” a play on the “super bloom,” such a clever title. There are places, I read, not far, where mushrooms can be found, foraged, and with recent rains there is an abundance of fungi. Los Padres is not too far away, I think, and this weekend, like most weekends, I did not have specific plans. Maybe this would be a perfect outing, a chance to get out of the house, while also finding chanterelles, lion’s mane, and hericium. All I have to do is to ensure that each mushroom is safe, edible, and not poisonous.
Agaricus-campestris-michoacan.1
Funny thing, when looking at pictures of edible mushrooms on the internet, there are an abundance of photos of the mushrooms that one must avoid, amanita phalloides (“death cap”) and amanita ocreata (“destroying angel”) catch my eye. I find myself spending more time on the poisonous kinds, the ones that can cause death, imprinted in my mind.
“What are those,” she asks, looking over my shoulder.
“Just mushrooms. I am thinking about picking my own. Want to come along?”
“Always.”
Amanita velosa
The day is sunny and hot without a hint of clouds; I lace my new hiking boots, (bought as an apparent requirement for online dating –every potential match proclaims a love for hiking); they have no dirt, not a single scuff, and I think this will be a perfect chance to break my boots in. Following the helpful instructions in the article, my shirt is light weight, and my pants long; I pack a bag with “a hat, bug repellant, water, and a generous amount of sunscreen.” In my pocket is a sharp knife, a garden trowel, a soft-bristled brush, and a basket. I am ready.
Traffic is light as I travel up the 101, the ocean gleaming and sparkling in the morning light. “This is still my favorite drive.” I point out a jetty just outside of Montecito, as I have done a hundred times. She allows me to single out the obvious, knowing it is just something I do, like reading the names of the towns we enter into and identifying our favorite spot to pick up a lobster roll, even though she was with me when we discovered the Airstream trailer with the park benches under umbrellas.
Traffic remains easy through Santa Barbara, as I take the exit onto the 154 and arrive outside of Solvang before noon. Surprisingly, there are few people out enjoying the sunshine, but it may be the intemperate heat; we are alone as we follow the paths, searching for fallen trees, the nurse logs. A stand of oaks should be a good location for chanterelles, but where to find “the chicken of the woods?” I wander, searching, finding oysters, the waves of their gills perfect and stayed; chanterelles are discovered in a shady patch beneath leaf litter. I have gathered close to two pounds in just a few hours, but I continue. Keeping my eyes to the ground, my attention is drawn to fungi, white or ochre color, with the stipe, ring, gill and volva are all white, bending down I cannot tell if they are puffballs or A. Velosa, or possibly amanita ocreata. I am drawn to cut them, and place them in a separate paper bag with handles that I have brought.
Amanita ocreata, aka death angel
“Are those the death angels?” She asks.
“Maybe,” as I examine the caps and the stems. “I do not see the brown center, maybe stubble rose mushrooms?”
I look for approval, but she has vanished, likely returning to the vehicle, I think, losing patience with my search.
“I am sure they are fine, maybe they are just coccora,” I call out, but I know, I have already decided that these are not likely either, and they remain in the separate bag. On the way back to the car, I spot white stalks with a jade hue near a split and fallen oak. I carefully cut the bases, placing them in the bag, then place the bag on the bottom of the basket before I enter the car.
Amanita phalloides
“Can you believe how many mushrooms we found?” I ask, but she does not respond. I know that she knows.
Before I can make the filling, I need a puff pastry and decide that this is a perfect time to use a “rough puff method,” which does not require yeast or brushing layers with butter. Instead, after whisking the salt, sugar, and flour, I grate less than half of the butter, then add in the remainder in slices, tossing the flour; adding the ice water, and forking to distribute, then I gently kneed, before placing in plastic wrap, ensuring all of the air pockets have escaped, chill in the fridge for two hours, before rolling out with flour on the butcherblock, folding in three, and then chilling for another half of an hour. I am glad I am alone in the kitchen, because I am making a terrible mess. While I let the dough rest, I need to start on the filling.2
A recipe for mushroom wellington is easy enough3 Layers of shitakes I picked up in the grocery store, with a filling of chopped wild foraged mushrooms, caramelized onions, and also a layer of sauteed spinach. Seasoning during the sauté is what makes my dish unique, but the key is to allow the mushrooms to rest on a paper towel to absorb the liquid, as the moisture will be the ruin of the dish. The mushrooms from the paper bag are cooked separately in a pan I never use, after the others have been cooked and are resting. At the beginning they are not as colorful as the others, but after five minutes on high, they are not unlike the first batch. I carefully set these in a paper-lined glass bowl, away from the others, while I layer and roll the pastry with filling, sealing the edges, turning over so that the seam is downward facing.
The sunlight wains as I sit down to the table, the candles are half burnt; I look at the cards resting in place before each seat. I survey the table, biting the left side of my lower lip as I am prone to do when I am nervous or in thought. I pick up my glass of iced tea and speak:
“I know you left just over a year ago.” I pause. The words are not coming naturally, but I exhale. “I have missed you more than I can say, which is why we are here. . . a party that I never wanted to have, that I never, ever thought would happen. I never believed that I would be the one here, and you, there.”
I didn’t expect this to be so hard. I want to get up from the table and walk around the kitchen to clear my mind, or to be distracted by the dishes in the sink that I should have washed; I should have cleaned as I cooked, you cannot be happy at all with this mess, but I do not rise, holding the fork and knife.
“So, I decided to have this dinner, just you and me, and those things that I need to say goodbye to tonight, that are not going to continue to haunt me.” I realize the callousness of mentioning haunting at this time and cannot believe I would invoke a specter now, for this occasion.
“OK,” I breathe deep, exhale and continue, looking to my right. “I have invited the diagnosis and the fucked-up emotions I have felt for not insisting that we go to the doctor before you noticed the lump, before you recognized the lump. I knew you had been sick for at least a month but didn’t realize that it could be more than the flu. I have been carrying this guilt around for the past twenty-five months, that I didn’t pay closer attention, that I didn’t recognize what was happening earlier, but I am going to do my best to stop, to stop dwelling and thinking about what I could have or should have done.” I cut a piece of the wellington without the herbs and place it in front of the seat to my right.
Looking to the chair next to the first serving, I continue. “I know that it is not your fault and that chemotherapy is beneficial to so many people, but you are really fucked up. You devastated her body and weakened her, making her wonder if she could survive the nausea, the vomiting. You caused her hair to fall out, caused her to lose her confidence, never wanting to be around our friends. You ruined two out of three weeks and you stole, you took from us months of the last year we had together, time that we could have spent doing something else, anything else, and I hate you.” I am pointing with the knife. “You gave both of us false hope for months, before doing little to stop its progress and because her body was so weak from you, she couldn’t keep going, she couldn’t put up a fight when she needed. But from today I am not going to give you one more thought; I am done.” I cut a slice from the cut wellington, placing the crispy potato side on the plate and set it down in front of the second chair.
Looking to my left, my eyes drawn to the picture window for just a second, blinking to slow the inevitable tears. “My memories of the last week, the hospital. I know you didn’t really do anything to deserve to be here, but I have to say goodbye. I cannot keep remembering the last week, the last minutes, the last breath. I cannot have you randomly appearing when I allow my mind to wander or when I least expect. I know, I know, memories are important, all I have, and you have helped over the past year, helped me to remember everything that was good, that was not tainted or poisoned with the cancer.” I smile at the inadvertent pun despite myself. “But it is really fucking hard to see your memories, without warning and without reason, and the images you carry are too hard, not necessary. Everyone says that time will soften your memories, but I cannot wait, I cannot let more time go by with you slinking around, waiting to slide in. After tonight I am going to use the technique that my therapist taught me.” I look around the table thinking don’t start; it may be the only thing that I kept from the appointments. “I will not let you surprise me again, and even if you try, I am simply going to acknowledge your presence and set you aside, replace you with memories of something or someone positive. I will not let you live rent free in my mind any longer.” I have already cut a large piece of the pastry and set it down on the table.
“And finally, my regrets, my anger, my frustration, and now my guilt. You have been with me the longest, since when we lived in that shit hole, since I was a drunk.” Even at this moment my mind wanders to the rooms, the meetings, reminding myself that an alcoholic is always a drunk; don’t forget it, if you think it is in your past, it will be in your future. I look at the seat, continuing, “you know what I mean. You know me better than anyone at this table and I really have to say goodbye to you. I can’t. I just cannot keep hating myself for the things that I cannot change; I need the forgiveness that she had at times, and even though she never forgot, I need the serenity I have tried to find over the past twelve years. I need to forgive myself.” Taking the last slice, placing it onto its plate, I know this guest needs to be extinguished, killed the most. If I cannot let go of the guilt and remorse, there is no chance that the other guests will stay dead.
I still hold the knife and serving fork in my hands as I look to the uncut entrée. I almost begin cutting, but realize that I should change the utensils, placing them in the sink, along with the empty plate. When I return, I hold a fresh pair and remove the rosemary, cutting two generous portions, placing parmesan roasted asparagus atop the crispy sliced potatoes, walk to the other end of the table and place one down, my fingers lingering on the arm of the chair. Sitting down opposite, I turn on a mix-cd made by friends for their wedding twenty years ago: French and exotic beats, I think she called it “mondo exotica”; it fills the space. The food turned out nicely, I think, realizing I was hungrier than I thought. I will have to make it again if I have guests.
I should say something more, but she knows; it isn’t as though she ever left my head.
Erin Patterson, an Australian woman from Leongatha, Victoria (135 km southeast of Melbourne), killed three dinner guests with a meal containing death cap mushrooms she served at her home in July 2023. She was alleged to have foraged the mushrooms, before hosting a lunch for her estranged husband, Simon Patterson's relatives: her parents-in-law, Gail and Don Patterson, and Gail's sister, Heather Wilkinson, and Heather's husband, Ian Wilkinson. Pastor Wilkinson was the only survivor. Her trial and conviction, which took place in 2025. Testimony at trial included a claim that at the dinner party she lied to her guests that she had cancer, and the family members allegedly comforted her, giving advice. Erin claimed that it must have been a mistake in her foraging, and that she was only saved because she ate several slices of an orange cake Gail brought to the dinner:
"[I ate] another piece of cake, and then another piece," she said. Before she knew it, the rest of the cake was gone and she felt overfull.
"So I went to the toilet and brought it back up again," Erin told the trial. "After I'd done that, I felt better."
The prosecutors argued that her internet history included local sightings of death cap mushrooms and she allegedly disposed of any remaining evidence from the dinner. Erin Patterson served herself on a different plate than her guests and children also had no evidence of ingestion of the poisonous mushrooms. However, there was no direct motive presented at trial.
She has maintained her innocence.
all photos courtesy of wikipedia.
For more detailed instructions, see https://www.bonappetit.com/recipe/shortcut-puff-pastry
This recipe was adapted from https://ohmyveggies.com/mushroom-wellington/
You have served your time, Chris. I am so happy you have realized this. Let go of the guilt and blame, because they no longer serve you. The future beckons brightly, my friend. Sending peace and love.
A truly powerful essay, Chris.