Graham Crawford's Column

Graham is a translator living in Poland for almost 20 years. In between travelling the length and breadth of the country, he has worked for Collins and Longman publishers and on the Kosciuszko Polish-English dictionaries, among others. His current and recent projects include a translation of the 20th century poet, Konstanty Galczynski, and a book on the songs of Edward Stachura.


Previous Columns

2010-08-27 - A wimp state
2010-08-20 - Bolshy believers
2010-08-13 - No pomp in the circumstances
2010-08-06 - Leching in the wrong direction
2010-07-30 - Eye of the tiger
2010-07-23 - Cross purposes
2010-07-16 - Two left feet
2010-07-09 - In a sentimental mood
2010-07-02 - Judas Priest?
2010-06-25 - Picture frame
2010-06-18 - Cosmic karma
2010-06-11 - Forecast of doom
2010-06-04 - Springing into summer
2010-05-28 - Blame the beavers
2010-05-21 - Fountain frolics
2010-05-14 - Father forgive me
2010-05-07 - Through a glass darkly
2010-04-30 - Better late than never
2010-04-23 - Conspiracy of fools
2010-04-16 - The mourning after
2010-04-10 - A nation in mourning
2010-04-09 - A bum rap
2010-04-02 - No legislating for it
2010-03-26 - News from home
2010-03-19 - Only a dope would do that
2010-03-12 - A load of bollocks
2010-03-05 - Love me not
2010-02-26 - Splashing the cash
2010-02-19 - Icicles keep falling on my head
Mushroom madness

Friday 3rd September, 2010


"They died plunging over precipices as they hurtled, gung-ho through the mountain forests, eyes on the prize."


Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, autumn approaches and the mushroom picking season is in full swing. Anyone who spends time in Poland will be aware of the passion aroused in the average Jan Kowalski at the thought of a day in the woods picking wild mushrooms, coming home, frying them up, then dying a painful death several days later.

It’s a passion that leaves me cold as mushrooms make me instantly retch. But millions of Poles adore the wee beasties, and trek through the forests gathering such luxuriously named wonders as ceps or chanterelles.
Sadly, recent weeks have seen the life and death drama of Tomek, a six-year-old boy whose foolhardy parents decided to feed wild mushrooms. A liver transplant and several operations later, he’s still hooked up to life support machines and will never fully recover.

Every year it’s the same. Figures show total poisonings of about 500-1000 with annual fatalities of around 30-60. The biggest culprit is the aptly-named death cap, followed by the equally grim-sounding poison pax, and even the gentler-named brain mushroom ought to dissuade the more squeamish among us.

But mushrooms induce a mania like few other foods. Mushroom fans in Italy have gone so berserk that eighteen have died in a mere ten days. They didn’t even eat the mushrooms. They died plunging over precipices as they hurtled, gung-ho through the mountain forests, eyes on the prize. Poles, by comparison, appear a paragon of restraint, or is it just that Polish forests are flat?


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