Everyone in the "Bush" knew that my father, Peter, was the neighborhood authority on mushrooms. We'd go picking with him so he could teach us everything he knew about them, but he always remained the "supreme" mushroom-grader. One day Mr. Schiro found a patch of unusual looking mushrooms so plentiful that they filled a bushel basket full. He carried a bucket of the mushrooms to our house as a "gift" to my father. Three days later Mr. Schiro came by to see how we had enjoyed the mushrooms and mentioned that he had waited a full day to eat any assuming, that if they hadn't been good for eating, my father would have let him know immediately. It was then that my father informed him that he didn't know how they were yet, because he hadn't had a chance to try them.