Saturday, February 12, 2011



THE MOREL OF THE STORY

I anticipated many wonderful experiences when we headed for the boonies, but one particular benefit never occurred to me. We had our own woods. Twenty acres of woods. What grows in the woods, children?  Think hard. Under the leaves? Around old elm trees lying on the ground? I never dreamed I would go out my own front door, walk fifty feet, and find a glorious, magical patch of morel mushrooms.

Morels must secrete pheromones. Isn't the deal with pheromones that they trigger a response in those upon whom they fall?  Well, when I see a morel, my responses are righteously triggered. Have you experienced that surge of endorphins when you spot the first morel of the season? Have you come upon a huge patch and become faint? Have you wrapped your hand around that treasure, heard the sound of them sizzling in the frying pan, smelled them browning in butter? That much pleasure is a first-order sin in the Amish country around here.

I grew up on a small lake in Michigan, and in our neighborhood, morel hunting was a no-holds-barred competition. My aunt never did reveal her secret morel spot even to her beloved brother, my dad.

One of my dad’s happiest days was the day he cut up a sponge and made a basket full of fake morels. He got up early and planted them on our neighbor’s lawn. Then he made a couple of fried eggs and some of his famous boiled coffee and sat back to watch. When the sun came up, our neighbor burst out of her house screaming with joy and ran to gather the morels. She picked up the first one and––slowly she raised her face toward our house with a feral, menacing expression. She threw down the sponge and stormed into the house. Morels were serious business. 

And that is why I experience an even deeper level of pleasure at being the mistress of morel manor; not only can I pick far more than I can possibly eat––and I am willing to eat them until I vomit­––but I also can lord that over my sisters back in Michigan. I take dozens of photographs  (including one pile that completely covered the kitchen counter,) and I send those pictures to my sisters in the Water Winter Wonderland. The first time I sent the mushroom pics, their replies hit my inbox within seconds. I have to tell you––I was not aware one could send such language into the ether. After 7 or 8 mailings, they refused to open those emails. So, I had to change my tactics; I re-titled the photos. Who could resist opening HotIowaFructoseCoveredStuds.jpg? I love thinking about them opening those attachments and getting another face full of morels.  Iowa morels. My morels.

Having a private stock of morels is awe-inspiring. My sisters not having the morels? Well, as they say in Ann Arbor––Hail to the Victors.


More on morels:
http://www.morels.com/