The fear
Before you judge me, hear me out. The most pertinent fact about my mushroom phobia, which you need to understand, is that I've never knowingly eaten a mushroom in my life. I have no idea how they taste. My aversion to them, therefore, should not be mistaken for fussy eating or for an allergy. The truth is a little darker and altogether weirder.
Insofar as it can be synopsised, I usually joke that my phobia operates on three levels: liminal, subliminal and superluminal.
First of all, mushrooms are fungus and fungi are parasitic. Second, as a child, I once had a traumatic dream in which I discovered a series of shoots – the type that grow on potatoes when you leave them in the bag too long – enveloping my scalp. (I’ve since learned that those potato things are not fungus. But I was only eight at the time, okay?)
Finally, I later dated a girl who cheated on me with a man who worked in a mushroom house. While true, I generally only include that last point as a self-deprecating aside. The idea is to present my aversion to mushroom as a light-hearted tick – rather than the visceral, pathological condition it actually is. You know, so people will still think I’m a normal person.
Hating mushrooms hasn’t had a detrimental impact on my life. But it has sometimes made me appear difficult in restaurants, and an ungracious guest in other people’s homes. So if there’s a cure out there, I’d be more than willing to avail of it.
The therapy
Hypnotherapist Kieran Fitzpatrick lives in a semidetached house, deep in the suburban jungle of Dublin 12. Thanks to satnav, I arrive at his front door 15 minutes ahead of time. As I sit outside in the rain, I feel rather optimistic about our session today.
Upon entering Fitzpatrick’s surgery, I am invited to sit on a dentist’s chair. There is hold music playing softly in the background and I am invited to talk about my attitude towards mushrooms.
I tell the therapist about the dream. He asks why such harmless shoots would have sinister connotations for me.I suppose they remind me of those parasitic weeds you find in your garden, I tell him – the ones that only exist to strangle the life out of other plants.
I remember discovering these weeds for the first time as a kid and being shocked, their malevolent purpose clashing with my hitherto benign view of nature. Woah . . . Now my knowledge of analysis doesn't extend much further then The Sopranos box set. But that seemed like a seismic, Season Seven breakthrough to me.
Fitzpatrick is less excited, however. As a hypnotherapist, he isn’t interested in the rational arguments I’ve constructed to bolster my irrational revulsion. Instead he wants to change the associations I have with mushrooms.
Using a mixture of psychology and light hypnosis, he works on me for almost two hours. Afterwards, he admits to being surprised at the virulence of my phobia. But we’ve made progress. I can now at least contemplate being in the same room as some mushrooms. Who knows, maybe even pushing some around a plate with a fork? Fitzpatrick smiles. “The bomb is defused,” he says. “Now let’s land the plane!”
The challenge
Over lunch in Chapter One, proprietor Ross Lewis peppers me with questions about the piece I'm writing. I'm so thrown to find myself chewing the fat with a Michelin star winning chef, it doesn't occur to me how much of Kieran's good work risks being undone here.
First Ross lists a variety of (no doubt mouth-watering) mushroom dishes. “You wouldn’t eat that?” he marvels each time.
I shake my head. Nope.
“What if you were starving? Would that make any difference?”
Not really, I admit.
“What would happen if you ate something and later found out there had been mushrooms in it?”
Probably nothing, I tell him.
In the end, I explain it to him the simplest way I know how. Substitute the words “human flesh” for mushrooms in all of your questions and you can probably guess the rest of my answers. Truth be told, I’m feeling a little on edge here.
Finally, the moment of truth arrives. Ross brings out a plate and describes to me what’s on it: king oysters, wild girolle and a Japanese mushroom whose name I don’t quite catch, served with fennel puree and fennel shavings. “If you’re ever going to eat mushrooms,” he promises, “these are the ones you’re going to eat.”
A couple of minutes pass. The photographer takes some pictures. After establishing that fennel is not a mushroom, I nibble the fennel shavings. Then I pick a tiny mushroom up with my fork.
I only seriously contemplate putting it in my mouth for a second. But that’s enough to decide the issue for once and for all. I’m never, ever going to eat mushrooms. For a moment, I’m ashamed. Then I feel light-headed and relieved. This ordeal had been hanging over me all week. Now it’s over. And thank God for that . . . Now what’s for dessert?
Eoin Butler was treated by Kieran Fitzpatrick, kieranfitzpatrick.com
