Morel Superiority: In Praise of the Fungal Phoenix
Morels have no psychoactive properties but are definitely magical. The caps have a brainly look that might make you feel like you’re hallucinating, but these whacky, whimsical mushrooms are for real and can cause real-life magic to happen. This is especially true if you are hunting them, but preparing morels can be an adventure too.
Morels are widely considered the finest tasting mushroom on the planet. Their meaty flavor and fleshy texture allow them to mix well with fat and wine, and lend a soulful fungal aroma to soups.
Morels grow and are hunted on every continent except Antarctica, and are named in most languages. They could spring up anywhere, as long as the soil temperatures and moisture levels are right, but they prefer creek beds, disturbed ecosystems and the back yards of morel pickers. They appear in clusters so that if you find one, don’t move until you’ve scanned the whole area.
Most of the morels picked, including the ones for sale at fancy markets are known as phoneicoid morels, named after the phoenix.
For reasons barely understood, these morels proliferate in the burned mountain forests of the west. When you go after them, you quickly look and smell like a burned forest yourself.
Finding morels is half art, half science and half persistence. It’s an ecological puzzle you solve by noting the elevation, slope angle, the direction it faces and surrounding plant species, if any remain. Pine cones can look like morels and get your hopes up. That’s why they call it mushroom hunting, rather than picking.
Last week when I went hunting I did not wear my morel goggles. In retrospect, the burn I chose was at too high an elevation, so the soil wasn’t warm enough. Back in town I bought a nice basket of morels at the farmers market. Then I went to Diamond Jim’s Casino, which houses a small but well-appointed liquor store that carries the correct type of sherry for morel cooking.
Morels need sherry as much as they need butter. But not so-called “cooking sherry,” which tastes more like salt water. We need drinking sherry for morel cookery, but not the good stuff. High-end sherry does not offer any advantage over a $7 bottle of Fairbanks. But alas, on that day, Diamond Jim’s was out of stock.
As I stood crestfallen in Diamond Jim’s, a friend called my name. Being a great hunter of elk, morels and other wild things, I knew he would understand my plight. So I explained to him and the room in general, why I needed that Fairbanks.
They just wanted to know where I had found them. Reflexively I spat out a false location because they deserved to be lied to. Anybody foolish enough to ask a morel hunter where he found them, so they say, is foolish enough to believe the reply.
“I prefer vermouth,” offered the bartender. My head swiveled.
“For morels?” I asked. She nodded.
“Great!” Do you have any vermouth?
“No.”
Fortunately, dry vermouth is easier to hunt down than Fairbanks. I found a bottle at the supermarket across the street. And I’m happy to report that the bartender was correct.
Here’s a recipe for a dish I first ate by a campfire one rainy June night, when I was camping with a bunch of pickers. There is a certain smell that’s only available around a fire, in the middle of a burned forest, in front of a pan of simmering morels simmer in deep butter. It’s the smell of the wild, and a whiff of the future in the middle of desolation. An ashy reminder that destruction can pave the way for new growth.
It blends a decadent morel saute with wild rice, and the untamed flavor of sage. It’s the wild earthiness that you are hunting for when you eat wild mushrooms.