Seven Days Of Pointless Confessions. Day Six: My Mushroom Hatred Is My Own Fault

I hate mushrooms. I despise them. I can stomach button mushrooms a bit, but that’s because they’re so filled with brine that they don’t even resemble real mushrooms anymore, taste or otherwise. However, it’s my own fault.

When I was in preschool, I loved mushrooms. Couldn’t get enough. I distinctly remember a bunch of mushrooms growing out of a log by a fence in the wooded area my preschool maintained and let us play in (a Montessori, the fenced off wooded area was pretty nice). I remember having eaten them, the whole patch growing out of the log. I liked mushrooms back then, remember? Also, I was something like three or four at the time. I don’t remember precisely how people found out, but I suspect some other kids told on me. Other kids are like that. The school and my parents must have assumed they were poisonous, because I definitely remember being at the doctor’s office where I was throwing up into a metal bin because they’d given me syrup of ipecac.

I haven’t been able to stand mushrooms since.

I still have no idea whether that patch in preschool was poisonous or not.