Here’s the thing about mushrooms: They’re so much more than buttons and ‘bellas.

Not that baby bellas aren’t great — because they are. Most of the time, baby bellas are the ones in my shopping cart. They’re versatile, meaty, and easy — and most every store has them.

But have you tried … shiitake mushrooms? Maitake mushrooms? Trumpets? Enoki? Morels?

Those are just the tip of the ‘shroom-berg, friends.

A few weeks ago, I ventured to the local Asian market, and there were even more varieties of mushrooms. I don’t even know what they were called — they fell into the category of “things I don’t recognize or know what to do with, but I’d love to experiment with,” which comprised about 50% of the products there.

And don’t get me started on magic mushrooms. Oh yes, the little psilocybin-filled beauties are tearing it up in research labs and university studies, where they’re used to treat severe anxiety, PTSD, and other psychological conditions. A 2020 Johns Hopkins University study found that two doses of psilocybin relieved major depression in participants for at least a month.

If you haven’t yet seen the Netflix documentary, Fantastic Fungi, I highly recommend it. The first half details, among other things, the vast and extraordinary biological networks that fungi create, and the second half delves into their medicinal use. It’s fascinating — and one can’t help but notice how much a human’s neural network resembles fungi’s underground communication channels. Perhaps that’s why they’re so effective at treating mental illness? They already know their way around that neighborhood.

But let’s go back to my kitchen.

I want a simple, mushroom-based dish that would enable me to combine a bunch of different mushrooms into delicious harmony. However, my brain is easily overwhelmed when there are too many choices (e.g., which mushrooms?!"), so I let the fates decides — or more specifically, I let the produce buyers at Sprouts Market decide — which fungi we’d be consuming. I log onto Instacart, navigate to the Sprouts Market storefront page, and search “mushrooms.” I’m greeted with a decent selection, including my staple baby bellas, maitake mushrooms, and brown clamshell mushrooms, which I’ve seen on restaurant menus under the name “shimeji.”

I plunk them into my shopping cart, along with the rest of our weekly grocery order, then let the Instacart elves do their work until, a few hours later, the ingredients magically show up at my doorstep. In the meantime, I rustle through the disarray of my pantry

I lay out the different mushrooms on my trusted, worn, stove-side cutting board. The maitakes make a heart. Do you see it?

Now this is where you, my friends, will divide into two distinct groups: those who wash their mushrooms, and those who wipe them off with a cloth. I fall firmly into the latter group, but I won’t judge you if you douse your precious, sponge-like mushrooms in water. Really, I won’t.

I fall so firmly into the latter category that, when I make this mushroom … ragu? Sauté? I don’t know what to call it, exactly … I don’t even add any oil to the pan before I drop the mushrooms in. I’d watched a YouTube video that said to put them in a dry pan, to allow the moisture that’s already in them to release. Sure enough, within 30 seconds or so, the formerly dry pan is naturally lubricated by the water hiding inside the mushrooms.

At this point, my inner Cook — the one infused with memories of my father, grandmother, and others in the kitchen, along with years of Food Network, Julia Child reruns, and Top Chef marathons — takes over.

She adds in a little ghee. She adds in more than a little sherry. A little thyme, a touch of garlic powder. Some salt and pepper. She stirs everything around so the ingredients can get to know each other. And then, the finishing touch — sour cream.

Whenever my Cook takes over, I’m instantly calmed. Cooking transforms into a meditation, an act of inner trust. I don’t think too hard about what to add — instead, I let the food tell me what it wants. I don’t know any other way to describe it; it’s like any other skill, or muscle — it develops over time, with practice, intention, and interest.

I feel my father in my fingertips as I sprinkle the thyme, my grandmother with each grind of the pepper mill. As the sour cream stirs into the mushrooms, gradually lightening the color to a soft brown, I hear Julia Child in my ear, whispering, “If you’re afraid of butter, use cream.”

I stand there, over the steaming pan of seasoned, creamy mushrooms, and I smile. I am grateful. For mushrooms, and for everything else.

Time to eat.