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On my birthday (Saint Patrick’s Day) we went for a walk in the woods with our dog. We’ve gotten more rain in the past week than we normally do in our Western Washington “banana belt” location, so the moss and everything seemed a brighter green edging the path.

One of my favorite things about being in the woods with Delia is the way she will point out pretty things, first using their common names and then (if I’m lucky) their Latin names. Was it a flowering quince she pointed out? I can’t remember what it was, only that it had pink buds and the water was behind Delia when she said it. I can hear the sound of the comma between the English and the Latin, even if I can’t remember the words.

As we wandered off the beaten path, Delia notified me that she found a morel:

For the rest of our walk she kept her eyes peeled for more while I just grinned feeling that fortune had smiled upon us. On me, especially.

Today she fried it up in butter and soy sauce and we shared that one small, delicious mushroom. It was better than a birthday cake. The kiss afterwards was salty and slick with grease.

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