Morels

mo·rel (m-rl, mô-)n.
Any of various edible mushrooms of the genus Morchella and related genera, characterized by a brownish spongelike cap.

Have you ever eaten these scrumptious mushrooms? Have you ever picked these mushrooms? Growing up on the farm, there was always the annual morel picking adventures with the whole family. Not that we went very far to get them. About a mile and a half down our back road, and we would find outselves in a poplar stand of trees, each of us with our very own ice cream pail to try and fill. I loved picking mushrooms and I loved it even more if I could fill my pail before my brothers filled theirs. Just sayin! And lots and lots of ant hills; and we are talking big ant hills. I always steered away from them, cause they just plain scared me.

Last week, I went picking mushrooms twice. Once evening with my brother and his young duaghter. We found this many!









And then I went picking morels again with the same brother, but this time with our sister. Of my siblings, my sister is the consumate mushroom picker. She knows the spots! She knows when! She knows what to pick! I figured this second outing would surely see me walking out with a pailful of mushrooms. Just the three of us, down a random gravel road, tramping through a fabulous stand of poplars, looking for mushrooms! My luck though, no ant hills. Insert smile here. It has been so very many years since I went picking mushrooms. The exhileration of being out in the country and in the woods was surreal. I probably could have just found a rock to sit on and just stared into the wonder of nature all about me. But I kept busy ... looking for mushrooms. And looking was the keyword, cause obviously we found a stand of poplars where the mushrooms weren't gracing their beauty above the dead fall groundcover the leaves. Just now and then, and they were small.

My sister says the best way to pick them is when you find one, to squat yourself down and the survey the horizon over the nearby groundcover. Cause where there is one, there is nore. And she's right. Albeit, I don't remember my Dad teaching me that way back in the day. But then, again way back in the day I was littler, so I already was much cloer to ground level. Just sayin!

Between the three of us we found about a half an ice cream pail of morels, and gave them to the brother! He hadn't found not a one! He took them home, and for breakfast, made omelettes with some of the wild mushrooms. And then for supper, potatoes and mushrooms. I, ah hum, apparently did not get an invitation to share that supper! Insert, bobs head up and down here, thinking that's the last time I give him my mushrooms. Just kiddin!

After the rains this past week, it is nice to see the sun out again. And I am thinking that by Tuesday, if the sun persists, there will be indeed many, many more mushrooms to pick! Maybe I'll have to take a drive after work on day this coming week.

One things that was truly abundant, besides the poplar trees and dead leaves everywhere, was woodticks. I was fortunate to only have about two. But on both occasions, for whatever reason, the woodtick population gravitated to my brother. I have never seen so many woodticks on one person at a given time.

And as I close this post, I am chuckling ... a Ukrainian never divulges the mushroom picking spots. Someone asked me yesterday ... she was Ukrainian ... where did you go looking for morels. And to honor the centuries-old tradition of not divulging, I told her to find a back gravel road and a stand of poplar trees. Here's hoping she has more luck then I did!