When I was a teenager, my best friend's big sister was an accomplished classical guitarist. She had studied with a maestro who was, himself, a student of Andrés Segovia.
So my friend's sister called herself a "grandstudent" of Segovia.
Hey. Why not?
I took a couple of lessons from her, on my brother's fake Spanish guitar. I sucked. But... I'm a great-grandstudent of Segovia!
[Grabs steering wheel and turns hard here for not-so-gentle segue into my meal of locally foraged chanterelles and porcino (just the one) on toast.]
My pal Kudzu (whom you've seen in comments, but who is too busy in the real world of dead-tree media to blog) gave me and Cranky a sumptuous gift, a generous portion of the package of Mendocino myco-goodness that had just been mailed (yes!) to her by fungi friends.
I don't know the friends, but they seem to have inadvertently "grandgifted" me. I'm a grandrecipient of foresty, fall-y wonder!
Hey. Why not?
Kudzu said she wondered what I'd do with this fresh, wild fortune. I told her I'd probably put it on buttered toast. I think I saw a flicker of doubt, or maybe disappointment, on her face. But really, I just didn't want to mess with Mother Nature. The purer, the better.
So I dry-sautéed the slivered mushrooms in a whisper of butter; added a minced scallion from the yard (and a lot more butter); two sprinklings of salt (had to get it just right); and finished with a glug of Dry Sack sherry.
We piled this fragrant stew on toasted sweet batard bread. It tasted magnificent, although not as in-your-face king bolete as I anticipated.
Eating these mushrooms was a mystical experience. I know that every chanterelle and cepe you have ever bought was foraged, but they go through a middleman and we blithely procure them as mere market commodities.
These mushrooms were picked by my "grandfriends"!
Very good. Happy.