As we roamed Medoc Mountain, the ground gave a discourse on mushrooms—kinds that clean up the forest wood, kinds that might kind of be edible, kinds that kill. It was the same ground that a hundred and seventy years before talked abundantly about grapes— grapes good for making wine, grapes good for resisting rot, grapes native to here and nowhere else. It does not really talk grape anymore, and though I wish it would, I know I should also learn more mushroom.















