They are supposed to feel like a dog’s nose, bumpy and slightly damp to the touch. Black truffles are the gift that keep on giving. Put one in a jar of raw rice and you will have truffle smelling rice for a lifetime. Alas, by the time they reach us on the West coast the best have been snatched by rich and/or lucky folk. Although, you can buy them in a jar. Really, a jar? That’s like shipping a fried chicken leg in a jar — culinary treason and much more expensive. It’s like art (well, what isn’t?) — I used to fall for the catalog in the gift shop at the end of experiencing some museum retrospective every dang time. I would have it shipped from MOMA or FAMSF or wherever. Trouble is when I had it in my mitts at home my retrospective-mania had long subsided and the prospect of looking at small, flat reproductions of the original objects that had changed me (like Bothell, “For a day or a lifetime!”) was anticlimactic mach. What I am saying is that I would rather remember that truffle slice I had on eggs in some European City eons ago than to eat truffles from a jar. Ain’t nothin’ like the real thing, baby. Now to find some rich people!