Putting the Fun in Fungus

It's 8 am. I'm soaked to the bone from the relentless rain, covered in mud, and I'm hugging the side of a hill with my face planted dangerously close to some stealthily bare poison oak sticks. My heart is racing and I'm praying nobody has seen me. The station wagon (whose rattling tailpipe has alerted and prompted me to hit the decks) passes by slowly on the road above, its longhaired and bearded operator oblivious to my presence in the oak heavy, brambly landscape below him. From the smell of pot and Stevie Wonder wafting out the driver's side window, I doubt he would have cared I was there. But one can never be too careful.

There are very few places one is actually "allowed" to hunt for mushrooms. I, like many mushroom lovers, are occasionally forced to set our ethics aside from time to time in the name of the free and unblemished gastronomic miracles that are mushrooms.

Over the past year I've gone from mushroom novice to full-fledged, pocket guide carrying fungophile. It actually astounds me to consider the number of delectable little earth gems I have walked, run, biked and driven past in my lifetime; oblivious to their presence and sublime edibility.

A little over a year ago, my (now) boyfriend invited me to the property he lives on to forage for some Chanterelles. Apparently, if there's a way to my heart, it involves tromping through the woods and returning with five pounds of perfectly golden, must- and dirt-scented jewels that on a good day cost $20 per pound at the market.

The meal we cooked from our afternoon hunt in his little cabin in the wine country remains one of the best of my life. Pasta made from a neighbor's orange-yolked hen eggs, Chanterelles and cream. Heaven.

It was the first of many mushroom-centric outings we enjoyed before summer dried the hillsides. We spent April through September eagerly anticipating the fall rains and the bounty it would surely produce.

Our first forage of this season was in late November – a trip north with stops in Salt Point, Boonville and Mendocino. We collected my first King Boletes (commonly known as Porcini's), as well as a more difficult to identify but delicious Russula called a Shrimp mushroom. The Boletes were enormous and cartoon-like in their enormity and shape. The most whimsical and happy looking mushroom one could imagine, with a rich brown top and bulbous stalk that a single hand is challenged to contain.

The west coast experienced a great deal of rain recently, which resulted in a plethora of local mushrooms shortly after our return to the Bay Area. Queen Boletes (also known as Morettis and, for my money, superior in taste and texture to the King Bolete), Butter Boletes and Coccora all made their way into our stomachs, the stomachs of our braver friends and family, then onto drying racks and into jars when we couldn't manage to eat fresh all the mushrooms we had collected.

It's fair to say that I've completely geeked out on mushrooms. The way some people geek out at a Star Trek convention or playing World of Warcraft, I am giddy when I spot the unmistakable hue of a rain heavy Chanterelle or the velvety black cap and lacy cream stalk of a Fluted Black Elfin Saddle. (Yep, that's a real name.) They have dragged my butt out of the house on countless dreary days that otherwise would have been spent lethargically on a couch. And, despite the occasional humiliation of sprinting like a delinquent to avoid being spotted by the odd park ranger or do-gooder, they're free!

For those interested in learning more about mushrooms, Mushrooms Demystified by David Arora is pretty much the fungus bible, listing almost every mushroom in our area.

There are also several local classes throughout the season as close as Point Reyes and as far north as you wish to travel. They usually consist of or include outdoor field hikes with a local mushroom expert.

I suppose I'm obliged to state the bleedingly obvious and tell you that under NO circumstance should you eat ANY foraged mushroom unless you're one thousand percent sure you know what it is. There are several varieties in our area that when eaten are basically a death sentence. No antidote. You'll die. Period.

That said, happy hunting!