It’s officially my favorite time of the year in the Upper Valley: the start of foraging season.
I’ve always been a forager. I delight in a birthday scavenger hunt. I spend my vacation days metal detecting on Florida beaches for coins and jewelry. And, I’m a master Easter egg hunter.
When spring has sprung, I can find an excuse to forage for anything. I love finding the first crocus in my yard. I get excited by the sight of ramps, wild leeks, growing in a nearby park. (I’ve never actually picked a ramp, but I love recognizing them in the woods.) But my favorite Upper Valley treasure is the great morel mushroom.
When I first moved to Vermont, a friend stumbled upon a morel during a backyard barbecue at my house. I was unfamiliar with the fungus and didn’t understand the fuss. But my friend converted me to morel enthusiast after my first bite of the butter-soaked edible. It was delicious, and even more importantly, it grew wild in my own woods. I was enamored with the idea of scavenging for something delectable in the privacy of my backyard.
My investigation into the world of morels began. I scoured the internet for reliable information about mushroom hunting. I picked the brains of friends. Careful to understand the difference between the morel and the “false morel,” I was thorough in my research. (I learned that real morels are usually hollow. But do your homework before you eat any mushroom!)
Finally, I was ready for my solo hunt. I dressed the part, complete with bug spray and a hand shovel. I walked to the blossoming ash trees on my property in the back woods and moved around some of the rotting leaves on the forest floor. Almost immediately, I found three perfect morels. Thrilled with my find, I drove to a friend’s house for validation. Once he confirmed my find, I brought them home and had a dinner solely of fungus and butter. It was beginner’s luck and one of the most memorable meals of my life.
But the following year when I returned to my blossoming ash trees, I couldn’t find a single morel. I was sure that a poacher had found my claim. (Morel hunters are notoriously secretive about their stashes to protect their treasure.) I spent that spring eating store-bought mushrooms and waiting until the next season.
The elusive morels can surprise. Some years, I’ve found handfuls of them. Other years, I’ve found nothing but mud. With each hunt, I have become more addicted. I’ve spent dozens of spring weekend hours with my dog doing nothing more than wandering around my yard looking for the enigmatic edible. (If only I could train my dog to sniff out mushrooms the way that pigs can sniff truffles!)
This spring will be no different. As soon as my ash trees start to bud, I’ll return to the woods, hopeful for a record-breaking bounty. I’ll check my secret spots and I’ll peek around some unexplored territory. If I find morels, I’ll share them with family and friends, hoping to inspire others’ interest in the hunt. If I don’t find morels, I’ll hope for better luck next year.
In either case, it will be an adventure. Bring on the hunt!
Becky Munsterer Sabky is a writer in Norwich who muses about life on her blog, The Becky Pages.