The countdown has begun. In less than 90 days, I’ll be combing the forests of southern Minnesota for this beauty: The mighty morel in all its honeycombed glory. Sautéed in butter, these mushrooms release a complex, earthy flavor that elevates egg, meat, and rice dishes from simple to sublime. Depending upon the weather (and the mood of the Gods), morel season lasts about two weeks in my neck of the woods, three if I’m lucky. I cook plenty of fresh ones and dry the rest on this handy-dandy mushroom-tree until they shrink into crispy “morel potato chips.” Since they preserve so beautifully, the goal is to find as many as I can. This requires work, dedication...and good, old-fashioned greed. Friends and family accuse me of neglecting my duties for weeks as I slip through the woods like a thief. I’ll admit there’s some truth to their complaints: the pets miss a few meals; dirty laundry piles up; bills don’t get paid. But so what? All that crap can wait. For me, shrooming is one of the things that makes life worth living. The constellation of natural phenomena that must coincide to produce this fungal fruit is staggering, bordering on magical—as is the feeling that washes over me when I spot a proud morel bursting through the forest floor. (Can you spot the gnome? Me either . . . but he's GOT to be there!) Yes, the clouds part and the angels sing. Or maybe it’s just endorphins shooting through the pleasure center of my brain. After years of shrooming, I’ll never reveal my hunting grounds, but I can impart a crucial piece of advice to anyone foolish enough to attempt this highly addictive past-time: if you spot a morel, DO NOT RUSH to pick it. Instead, stand very still and LOOK. Chances are high (about 75%) that you’ll spy another one within a 15-foot radius, and sometimes, if you’re really lucky, you’ll stumble upon a fairy ring! The largest cluster I’ve found (so far) produced 25 dancing morels around the base of a scrawny elm. And please don’t ask me where—for I shan’t tell you. (A cluster of happy Bigfoots, each 4-6 inches tall) At best, morels are fickle and unpredictable: usually they pop in a secluded forest of hardwoods, but I’ve also pinched rebellious ones from drainage ditches, a neighbor’s front yard, and the flowerbed of a local museum. At worst, morels are cruel and elusive. Many days I’ve searched for hours on end, been bitten by mosquitoes, stung by nettles, only to find two miserable specimens, half-eaten by deer. (These I crumble and fling out, hopefully spreading their spores for greater gains in the future.)
And sometimes along the way, I find wild ramps. We’ll discuss this pungent cousin-of-an-onion in a future blog. In the meantime, stay tuned to the map on www.morelhunters.com for sightings in your area. May the mushroom Gods be with you.
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AuthorReader, Writer, Veterinarian & Cat-Lover. Still hunting for buried treasure. ArchivesCategories |