🍄 Episode 6: Mushrooms Gave Me Relationship Advice and Now I Can’t Eat Risotto Without Crying

 


(Carl cooks something that tastes like truth, and now I'm emotionally al dente.)

It started when Carl announced we’d been “emotionally malnourished since the last equinox.”

I was halfway through an expired protein bar and not in the mood for his metaphysical grocery lists. “What’s that mean?”

“It means,” he said, pulling a burlap sack from his canvas tote with dramatic flair, “we need to commune with mushrooms.”

I blinked. The mushrooms blinked back. One of them looked like it had been divorced twice and carried the wisdom of failure in its cap.

“We’re making risotto,” Carl said solemnly. “But the kind that stirs you back.”

🍚 Cooking With Existential Fungi

Carl began prepping the risotto like it was a sacred rite. He dimmed the lights, lit three candles shaped like Carl Jung’s head, and played ambient whale calls remixed with affirmations in reverse. I swear I heard one say, “You are the unresolved climax of your parents’ dream journals.”

Meanwhile, the mushrooms lounged on the countertop like a jazz ensemble of plant-based psychics.

There was a shiitake that refused eye contact, a lion’s mane wearing a monocle (I think?), and one extremely aggressive chanterelle who kept puffing out spores every time I made a sarcastic comment.

“They’re watching you,” Carl whispered. “And judging.”

🍄 Mushroom Messages Start Pouring In

The mushrooms didn’t speak at first. They transmitted. I wasn’t chewing yet, and already I was reliving every romantic compromise I ever made in IKEA.

Each mushroom had a vibe:

  • Shiitake: “You don’t want a partner, you want an audience who claps every time you make toast.”

  • Chanterelle: “You’ve mistaken being ‘chill’ for being voiceless.”

  • Lion’s Mane: “Stop falling in love with people who look like your inner saboteur in a nice shirt.”

I started sweating. Carl stirred the pot and said, “They’re just warming up.”

🧃 The Orange Juice Sees Too Much

I gulped orange juice to escape the critique.

It did not help.

The orange juice contained visions. As it slid down my throat, I saw flashes of every situationship I pretended was casual but cried over in the shower.

A small voice bubbled from the juice:

“Why do you ghost yourself every time you feel something real?”

I dropped the glass. The blender clapped sarcastically and muttered, “Retrograde regret. Classic.”

🥄 The Risotto Is Ready, and So Am I (Kind Of)

Dinner was served.

Carl plated it like a religious artifact. I took one bite and immediately felt the deep ache of ancestral disappointment—spiced with garlic.

Each spoonful delivered another memory I had buried under jokes and productivity. By the fourth bite, I remembered the time I got dumped during an improv show and still finished the scene.

Carl raised his kombucha flute. “To transformation, transparency, and tears with texture.”

The mushrooms were silent now. But their judgment lingered, like the umami flavor of unresolved codependency.

🧶 Digestif of Reflection

After dinner, Carl wrapped me in a weighted blanket and handed me a napkin embroidered with the words:

“Emotional intimacy is not an allergy.”

I asked, “Do you think this means I’m ready to love again?”

Carl shrugged. “I think it means you can finally admit you want to be.”

I cried into the risotto container for twenty minutes while the blender gave me a horoscope based on my soup choices and abandonment issues.

🍄 Key Takeaways From My Night With Mushrooms

  • Lesson #1: Just because someone texts you first doesn’t mean they know how to hold you.

  • Lesson #2: Crying into risotto is still crying with flavor.

  • Lesson #3: If your food starts psychoanalyzing you, just go with it. You probably need it.

💻 Next Week on Carl’s House of Technospiritual Reckonings:

Episode 7: My Laptop Has Opinions on My Therapy Journals

The saga continues when I discover my laptop has been autocorrecting my trauma into bad slam poetry and quietly filing my insecurities under “Screenplays No One Asked For.” Carl calls it “digital shadow work.” The recycle bin gains sentience and forms a union.

Bring tissues. And maybe a firewall.

🌀 You can’t suppress what mushrooms can sauté.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

That Time I Meditated Myself into a Cult Run by My Houseplants

Image
  They say inner peace is a journey. Mine started on a yoga mat made from old tax documents and ended with a Venus flytrap initiating me into a houseplant cult that communicates in Morse code. But let’s back up. It began—like most great spiritual misadventures do—with Carl. Carl, in case you missed Episode 1, is my cactus. Or more accurately, he was my cactus. Now he identifies as The Thorn Oracle, a self-proclaimed spiritual provocateur, emotional saboteur, and part-time enlightenment broker. That morning, I had dared to express mild irritation after stubbing my toe on the coffee table. Carl responded with the kind of pitying disdain usually reserved for people who clap when the plane lands. “You are toxic ,” he said, “and not in a sexy Britney Spears way. In a spiritually constipated way.” I was still hopping on one foot. “Carl,” I hissed, “I am bleeding.” “Exactly,” he said, with a photosynthetic flick of superiority. “Your ego is hemorrhaging. You need cleansing. Ritual. Relea...
Read more

The Day I Was Hypnotized by a Cactus

Image
 I was not expecting to be hypnotized by a cactus on a Tuesday. But as they say in therapy: expect the unexpected, especially when your houseplant starts quoting Nietzsche. It began innocently enough. I was sipping lukewarm oat milk from a mug shaped like an anxious dolphin when I noticed my cactus—formerly known as Carl, now self-identifying as "The Thorn Oracle"—was glowing. I blinked. It blinked back. Or rather, it twitched one of its tiny spines with the sort of menace typically reserved for middle managers or cats who have discovered their reflection. Then it spoke. “You are late,” it said. Its voice was deep, yet slightly wheezy, like James Earl Jones if he were allergic to himself. “I wasn’t aware I had an appointment,” I replied, which seemed logical until I realized I was arguing with a cactus, which by all definitions was not ideal. “You were scheduled for a psychological reset,” the cactus said. “Your inner chaos is leaking into the astral grid. Also, you lef...
Read more