Cep Tart

‘The forest floor at Emery Down was a carpet of penny buns.’

In her dementia my mother’s short-term memory was shot. As is usual in such cases she had perfect if increasingly repetitive recall of weekends three-quarters of a century before, when my grandparents would drive her and her sister, my future aunt, from Southampton in their newly acquired car to the New Forest, there to gather or hope to gather penny buns, a fungus that predates even Signor Carluccio. Today they are of cou