It’s morel season.
I’ve never found a morel mushroom.
Some people lament they’ve never visited Italy or gone bungee jumping (note: one of those I plan to do someday, the other, not so much), but from my Facebook feed of foodies, it seems like everyone and their toddler cousin has stumbled upon a cache of these wrinkly fungi.
It’s the season when these mysterious mushrooms spring from the ground at the base of trees, like delicious fairy circles. Foraging lore abounds. Search around dead elms, some say. Look on the edge of forests on south-facing slopes early in the season, north facing slopes later in the season. Look near ash or elm trees.
These are all great tips, but luck and a good eye play a big role, too. And don’t expect an experienced forager to share her spots — those are secrets taken to the grave.
Every spring, when the oak leaves are the size of a mouse’s ear and the soil temperature has reached at least 50 degrees, the walks with my dog get longer and slower as I peer around every dead tree on our rambles through the forest. But I have yet to strike the fungus lottery.
Even without finding any mushroom bounty, these walks are a pleasure. The thrill is in the hunt, and my dog is always happy when our pace slows and he has time to take the most circuitous, aromatic route he can find.
I am fortunate to know a lot of generous people who are far better at ’shrooming than I, and lucky for me, they share. While they would never divulge their hunting grounds (and it would be impolite to ask), they happily share their spoils.
This year’s contribution came from my husband’s co-worker Darlene. Apparently they just grow in her front yard, lucky gal. He brought home a grocery bag full of 3-inch-tall morels: firm, fresh and ready to eat. As a family we enjoyed them in a simple sauté with dinner, but there was enough left for a luxurious breakfast for one.