“Mr. Winkle turned to Mr. Pickwick, and murmured a few words; a whisper passed from Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Snodgrass, from Mr. Snodgrass to Mr. Tupman, and nods of assent were exchanged. Mr. Pickwick addressed the stranger.
‘You rendered us a very important service this morning, sir,’ said he, ‘will you allow us to offer a slight mark of our gratitude by begging the favour of your company at dinner?’
‘Great pleasure—not presume to dictate, but broiled fowl and mushrooms—capital thing! What time?’
—Charles Dickens, The Pickwick Papers (1836)
It was an exceptional day for chanterelle hunting in Santa Barbara County. A gloomy afternoon beneath a weepy sky and the leaf mulch was moist and dark. The brightly colored golden-orange chanterelles were glowing in the darkened conditions like jack-o-lantern pumpkins on an unlit porch. I could spot them from 20 yards away. The constant slapping of rain drops falling through the oak canopy to the forest floor was the only sound.