Poor Stevie

A few years ago, Joel and I went to a 21st in Bathurst for one of his friends. It was one of those parties that you know you could never pull off yourself. Mainly because not that many people actually like you. But also because it clearly cost a lot of money. It was in a beautiful historic hall, there were free-flowing drinks and more finger food than you could poke a wooden skewer at.

As Joel talked to his many friends, I cruised the food table and came across something that I figured was a felafel. I love felafel. As I bit into it angels sang, waves crashed on the beach and Josh Homme’s baby was conceived.

It was a deep fried, crumbed mushroom ball. They didn’t really seem to be all that popular, possibly because people saw felafel and no hommus, so I made Joel stash a couple in his pocket and I re-filled my plate over and over. Holy shit, it was fungi heaven.

Since then my life has pretty much been like an awesome episode of Shittake Gardiner and the quest for the perfect mushroom ball. I’ve searched high and low for recipes, but none seem to fit the bill. I’ve tried to satisfy my longing for ‘shrooms by making other mushroom-based foods. And while mushroom vol au vents are pretty much an orgasm wrapped in melted cheese, they’re still nothing compared to balls.

So when I spotted these in Coles, I nearly died:

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Turns out that actually mushroom content is .00001% and the rest is peas.

The quest continues.

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