of yes-or-no questions. Then we compare our mushroom to the picture in the book. As a final test, Valerie separates the stem from the cap and places the cap on top of the white paper. In time, the cap emits spores which show up on the paper in a distinctive color. I am the assistant, watching over Valerie's shoulder. I help out where I can, sometimes with good, sometimes with absurd guesses. For some reason, I am preoccupied with the poisonous mushroom group. Every time Valerie keys a mushroom, I ask if it's poisonous. I can't help myself. At first she's amused, but then she gets annoyed. Finally she accuses me of not taking the identifications seriously. After the reproach I go off to the other side of the room, sit on the couch, and bury my head in one of the mushroom books to show her how serious I am. She doesn't notice. By now, Rod is showered. When he comes to the kitchen table he takes a chanterelle, eats it in two bites, and washes it down with a beer. I accompany him into town to pick up the salmon at the grocery store. We buy the salmon, grab beer, bring back a few other odds and ends. I tell him I love his wife's shoulders. He tells me that when they met she used to be a scrawny thing. I tell him I can't believe it. When we return, Valerie is still hunched over the table, keying mushrooms. “Hey,” she calls to us as soon as we step inside the front door. She's holding up a mushroom for us to see. “Look at this. I knew I'd never seen one of these before. It's quite rare and mildly poisonous.” She looks my way with a special look. “You hear that? Mildly poisonous. You happy now?” I go over and examine the mushroom. “Happy,” I say. Rod and I let Valerie finish with the mushrooms as we prepare dinner. First, I fix the chanterelle salad, and then use the blender to whip up a batch of avocado salad dressing. Then I wash the carrots and begin steaming them. After that, Rod has me chop two whole bulbs of garlic to use as a topping for both the steamed carrots and the potatoes Rod has baking in the oven. On the patio Rod grills the salmon over glowing coals. We all sip Mexican beer. During the meal, Rod and Valerie both rave over my avocado dressing. I pay homage to garlic and tell them that from now on I will consider a baked potato naked without it. The silver salmon is moist and buttery; the steamed carrots are just the right touch. For dessert, Rod produces a joint from his shirt pocket, and, sipping on beers, we pass it around. For a few minutes we giggle. Then Rod rolls another and Valerie changes the music. I clear the dinner table and start on the dishes. When I turn around, Rod and Valerie are dressed for the hot tub. We head that way, passing the joint between us as we walk. We take off our clothes and ease into the tub's warmth. The night is clear. The moon is full. The darkness is both wide-open and womb-like. I feel absurdly good and compare myself to the moon. I am that high, I think. I am that full. Then Rod puts on those jets again. As I play in the corner with the hot, churning streams, I get a crazy idea. Leaving the tub, I go into the cold air, find the garden hose, and wet myself down with icy-cold water.
FALL 2017
WEBER
THE CONTEMPORARY WEST
113