Poosey Digest: Gone Mushroomin’

Greetings from Poosey.

Hank Blevins swore that he had a mushroom sniffing hog. He’d heard that in France they train pigs to sniff out truffles and since morel mushrooms and truffles were both fungi, his American pig could be taught to wander through the woods and detect these most delectable of springtime foods. Of course, no one has ever seen Hank’s hog hunting. They’ve seen the pig… her name is “Clover” …and they’ve often seen the sack of mushrooms he’ll proudly plop onto the loafer’s table down at the coffee shop. But to my knowledge there’s not a soul who’s actually watched this fungi-sniffing swine in action.

Several of Hank’s friends have asked to come along with him on a hunt, but Hank waves them off claiming that company makes Clover nervous. “You put a crowd around her and she gets fidgety. You can see it in her eyes.” Aside from being the only person I know who can read a hog’s eyes, Hank is also one of the most prolific mushroom hunters in town so maybe he’s to be believed.

Morel mushroom season provides just about as much fun and excitement as you can find in a small town. I’m sure there’s some degree of snobbishness in knowing that we can go out in the woods and find for free what our city cousins are paying a king’s ransom. Anyone can do it. Mushroom hunting is good exercise and a chance to breathe some fresh air. It’s a communal activity if you take your friends or your hog, and if you eat the mushrooms as soon as you get home, then you can brag about how many you found before anyone knows the truth.

Perhaps best of all are the tips and legends handed down by the old-time ‘room hunters… “When the oak leaves are the size of a mouse’s ear, mushroom-time soon is nearly here! ” … “Sycamore, hickory, elm and ash, you’ll find ‘em there, you bet your _____!” … “Look on all the rained-on land, but never where the water stands,” … and “Mushrooms yellow, oh so mellow; mushrooms red, you’ll be dead.” Of course, one Google click will give you all the information you need. But it’s more fun to listen to a grizzled old veteran of the woods.

Herb and I used to hunt together but we’ve given that up and now depend upon the kindness of neighbors. I’ll admit that I wasn’t much good at it. I was born with some sort of brain abnormality that caused the tiniest little green snake to turn into a 12-foot python, and when my snake killing sticks got so large that I could hardly carry them we gave up morel hunting. I suppose that the possibility of snakes keep a good many of us out of the woods. They never bother Herb because he can’t see them.

And everyone knows that a well-told lie is one of the true literary treasures of small-town life.

When Tommy Anders announced to our Sunday school class that he had to go back to town to get his McCullough chainsaw to saw down one especially large mushroom, the class didn’t direct him to the Ninth Commandment but simply appreciated the audacity of such a fib. It was Tommy’s dad who always said that he took dynamite on his mushroom hunts, claiming that only blasting would get some of the monsters out of the ground. And, as with most mushroom tales, there was never any proof given. Heck, that would have ruined the story.

When it comes to frying up the delectable little morsels, there’s only one preferred way, no matter where you live: the way your mother did it. Egg bath, flour or crackers or whatever she used was perfect. Chances are you aren’t quite satisfied until you’ve replicated Mama’s method.

The real joy of mushrooming is that like the weather, you can attempt to predict them but they can’t be controlled. Last year’s “glory patch” might be this year’s dry gulch, and yesterday’s barren field might be teeming with the little rascals this afternoon. It’s still like fishing… the best planning and equipment, like marriage, still depends upon the luck of the day.

Oh, there are no doubt those unrepentant among us who say they don’t like the things and continue to nibble away on their non-GMO broccoli sprouts, and I won’t quibble. That just means more for you and me.

You ever ’round Poosey, stop by. We may not answer the door but you’ll enjoy the trip.