We often associate lies with betrayal or manipulation—but what if some lies are taught with a smile, passed down with a bouquet of wildflowers and a basket of mushrooms?
In How to Lie and Get Away with it Every Time, author Anthony J. Placito shares an evocative memory from his childhood—one that redefines how we view deception. It’s not a tale of trickery for personal gain. Instead, it’s a gentle story about his grandfather, a fishing trip, and a lesson that continues to echo through the pages of the book: not all lies are created equal.
Placito recalls Saturdays spent fishing with his grandfather, “Grandpa P.” These early morning adventures were filled with nature’s charm—woods, creeks, wild animals—and the special bond only a grandparent and child can share. But one particular trip stands out, not for the fish they caught, but for the fish they didn’t.
After hours with no bites, Grandpa P looked at his watch and said something that would shape Anthony’s understanding of “truth” forever:
“We could never go home with an empty fishing basket.”
What followed was not more fishing, but a walk—one that turned into a detour of deception. They left the creek behind, gathered wildflowers, and eventually arrived at a farm where Grandpa casually picked mushrooms and vegetables. This wasn’t about catching dinner anymore—it was about maintaining a narrative.
Grandpa’s charming mantra wasn’t really about fish—it was about never disappointing the people waiting at home. The solution? Fill the basket with something else. That way, when they showed up to meet Grandma and Susie, they had something to show for their morning out.
It’s here that Placito introduces readers to the first lie he remembers experiencing. A lie told not to deceive maliciously, but to maintain joy, appearance, and routine. He didn’t understand it then—but readers certainly can now. The “empty fishing basket” wasn’t just about fishing. It was about pride, presentation, and care.
But perhaps the most fascinating twist comes with the mushrooms. Grandpa picked them happily, speaking lovingly about Grandma’s mushroom dish. Then, like a punchline in a comedy skit, he began to sing:
“I hate mushrooms, I hate them on my pizza, I hate them in sauce…”
A personal truth slipped out that contradicted everything he’d said moments earlier.
And just like that, Placito exposes a deeper kind of lie—the ones we tell by smiling through something we dislike, because love matters more than honesty. These lies are often hidden under acts of service, quiet gestures, and unspoken sacrifices.
This story, while simple on the surface, speaks volumes. It opens the door to a larger theme in the book: Lies aren’t always malicious. Some are practical. Some are loving. Some are even essential.
Placito uses his personal narrative not to glorify lying, but to reframe it. By anchoring abstract concepts in a child’s point of view, he helps readers see how easily and innocently the habit of deception can be learned—and how it often starts in the most well-meaning of ways.
Through his grandfather’s gentle deception, the author reflects on how we all absorb lies—not through instruction, but by example. The soft-spoken fib, the excuse made to preserve feelings, the little twist to save face—these are the lies we learn long before we can even spell the word “deceit.”
