Morel Queen

Eliana didn’t miss a beat as I walked in the door, kicked off my boots, and slipped a small brown paper bag into the fridge. “Are those mushrooms? Did you find those in the woods?” She was onto me, leaving her post of helping mama stir shiitake and tofu to investigate.

Born at the end of morel season of 2014, she’s nearing her fifth birthday – old enough to have a refined palate and nostalgia for ephemeral forest flavors, but too young to have committed the ForageCast to memory. Still, she knew this May was a special time of year - and had noticed Papa’s eyes being stubbornly peeled to the forest floor on recent father-daughter outings. 

Truth is, this spring brought a delight even more poignant than morels – we welcomed her baby sister, Noemi Adela, to the world on May 16. Sweet and snuggly, she is a spring delight.  And yet, while having two daughters born in morel season is a beautiful thing, it doesn’t make for ample time to pursue those fickle fruits. While I’ve had more than my share of banner morel years, 2019 has not been one of them for this foraging father. Things were getting down to the wire – morel season ends in early June in Vermont – when I finally got a moment to myself and trudged off onto ash-laden slopes in the throes of a relentless rainstorm.

So, when I arrived home with paper bag in hand, squishy socks on my feet and a smile on my face, Eliana smelled a rare culinary opportunity. She stood on her highchair, yanked the bag out of its hiding spot in the fridge, and picked out two pristine yellow morels. She gazed at them as you might look at an old friend, one you had almost forgotten even existed, but whose presence summons the warmest feelings when your paths serendipitously cross again. I savored the moment, taking in this blossoming mycophile’s reverie.

There would be no waiting for Eliana, who had already jumped into action. A budding cook, she pulled her chair over to the stovetop and stood up tall as we sliced the morels into a dozen pieces and threw them onto a hot cast iron pan. We dry sautéed the mushrooms on a high heat to sweat off any moisture before adding a morsel of butter. If you’ve ever cooked morels, this is when the magic happens. Fresh, they are stunning visually but have an underwhelming fragrance. But as soon as those yellows hit the heat, they release an olfactory overload of gamey, umami goodness.

This is when I saw another lightbulb go off in Eliana’s head. “Oh, I remember what these mushrooms taste like,” she remarked, her young mind flooded with memories of morels she’d eaten in seasons past. “And what do they taste like?”, I asked rhetorically. Eliana offered as articulate a description of the morel’s ineffable flavor as I’ve heard in all my years of hunting: “Like mushrooms, mushroomy…like salt, and a little bit of butter”.

Then came the negotiation tactics. “Papa, you get two slices, Mama gets two, and I get the rest, OK?”, she implored. “No, Papa…you get one slice, Mama gets one, and I get the rest, because I love them so much,” she rescinded, realizing the first offer may have been a tad too generous.

As much as I love eating wild mushrooms, I derive just as much joy in sharing them with others, and this little girl was tugging at my heartstrings. Once the morels had been lightly browned, chewy and crispy at the same time, we scooped them out of the pan and I let Eliana plate them into three bowls. Needless to say, she got all the biggest and juiciest pieces, signaling her approval with a resounding “Mmm” chorus as she indulged.

Noemi, our newborn, may be in for some stiff competition once she’s ready to move beyond milk and try a morel for herself next May. Until then, Eliana is the family’s reigning morel queen.