In praise of
CLOSE TO HOME
FUNGI
“
“Dig a shallow hole in the ground and
all you get is dust!”
That is one of my buddies proclaiming
mushroom apocalypse. Indeed, this has
been a dry season, and mushroom gathering
fears run rampant. It remains easier each
season to lay the blame on climate change.
Particularly, if one is a mushroom addict
and scienti¿ cally inclined. 6uch a person
believes that these wonderful vibrant delec-
tables produce health and happiness. I do.
Mushrooms are kind of an earth-borne
fruit, not sweet like a peach, but pungent
and unique. Each mushroom has its own
singular À avor and te[ture.
Essentially, they emerge in
the Paci¿ c 1orthwest during
the fall, though this year
chanterelles fruited in May,
and then disappeared. The
lovely oyster mushroom is
frequently collected in the
spring, and lobster mush-
rooms are sometimes found
in August. East of the moun-
tains (morels) are another
story, but let’s stay close to
home.
Mushrooms stem from
long invisible veins called
mycelia, which can tunnel for a hundred
yards underground, webbed like a road map
across the terrain of our own Columbia-Pa-
ci¿ c landscape.
There are hundreds of varieties. Per-
haps I know a hundred. That is not at all
remarkable. Along the way, I gather and
eat about 40. These are called delectables.
Of the other 60, most are less tasty, often
chewy, woody, bitter or simply une[cep-
tional. Ten of those will make a buddy sick;
call that gastrointestinal upset. Three might
kill you, destroying the liver in just a few
hours. )our or ¿ ve make you critically sick.
One must learn to be cautious. One should
be knowledgeable before sticking just any
mushroom in his or her mouth. Trust the
e[perts on this.
Over time, one friend became allergic to
chanterelles. Another bout might well send
her to the hospital. The golden chanterelle
is probably the favorite and most coveted
mushroom in the Paci¿ c 1orthwest. There
should be no ¿ rm rules to mushroom con-
sumption. But be careful. First time out, eat
just a few bites, and then wait several hours
before devouring the rest. An ounce of pre-
vention is worth a pound of
cure for sure, in this case.
I prepare and eat wild
mushrooms like a crazy
man. A few celebrated my-
cologists claim they never
met a mushroom they didn’t
like or couldn’t eat. Please
don’t go there. For centuries,
First Peoples ate psychedel-
ic mushrooms (psychoactive
basidiomycete fungus) in
an attempt to chase spiritu-
al enlightenment. Perhaps
some arrived! The Amanita
muscaria does produce a
high. But listen please; the little white dots
on top of the cap are strychnine. Eating this
mushroom is a very bad idea. There are
around 15 varieties of the Amanita mush-
room. 6everal are e[tremely poisonous.
/et’s drop-kick back to the ¿ rst 40. +ere
lies bliss. The delicate earthy taste ema-
nates certain euphoria, certainly for me —
not that 1ative American high, but a deep
resonating pleasure. 1o, this is not a reli-
gion.
This morning I cooked and ate two
bright yellow-yoked farm eggs accompa-
One should be
knowledgeable
before sticking just
any mushroom in
his or her mouth.
Trust the experts
on this.
4 | November 12, 2015 | coastweekend.com
Lobster mushrooms can be found in August.
The Amanita mascaria is a poisonous mushroom.
nied by my wife’s sourdough rye bread. On
that same plate were perched a delicate pile
of Boletus edulis, the King Bolete or Porci-
ni mushroom, simply coated with virgin ol-
ive oil and sea salt, and then grilled. 1oth-
ing could be much better or tastier. Porcini
make me happy.
Taste and smell and te[ture are unique
among mushrooms. They are an antito[in,
and that theory is built on much research.
For dinner, I chopped and sautéed the Lac-
tarius deliciosus, deglazed the pan with
Calvados brandy, and slopped in a splash of
heavy cream. When the cream bubbled and
gurgled and thickened, I poured this bit of
heaven over clam cakes fried in olive oil.
Tell me, when is life any better?
This is indeed a bad year for mushroom
collecting. Little to no rain has dampened
my spirits but not the great outdoors. Three
autumns ago, it rained si[ inches in three
days. This was 6eptember. Mushrooms
were everywhere. I stood in one shady spot.
8nder the 6itka spruce, there must have
been 40 boletes. I ¿ lled my basket and left
the larger, softer Porcini to germinate. I left
the babies, a sound practice. Mushrooms
also drop spore prints or spores. Wind takes
them. 6catters them. These spores make ba-
bies that ne[t fall. Mushrooms with closed
caps don’t drop spores, don’t reproduce.
Leave them for a couple of days and then
harvest perfect mushrooms. In other words:
help yourself, but don’t take too much.
Toward the end of this October, rain
was falling softly. Under the spruce trees,
rainwater dappled the boughs like so much
silver paint, sang a sweet wet song. Lol-
lygagging, I shufÀ ed through bramble
until, 20 to 30 yards ahead, I spotted the
telltale signs of my favorite mushroom, a
large fawn-colored cap or hat, a stem thick
as a ¿ st. As I got closer, I identi¿ ed three
more. These were Porcini. They stood tall
and proud. Pushing through a ¿ eld of moss,
Two perfect Matsutaki mushrooms.
they rose up nearly a foot. I offered up a
thanksgiving to the mushroom gods and cut
the stems close to the ground. I placed them
gently in my Balinese basket, and then cov-
ered the earth depression with pine needles
and duff. I was sealing off the mycelium,
protecting it from drying and dying.
After a long trek of several miles, I had
a half-full basket. I was happy. It had been
a good walk. E[pectations of a ¿ ne repast
wafted through my brain. I thought about
preparations, a lovely glass of pinot noir.
If seasonally late, the rain was back.
The earth greeted it like an old friend. It
would be a short season, but what the heck!
One should never complain about bliss, or
dish it out in measured proportions. +ow
lucky we are, here in this damp corner of
the world and so close to home.
Coastal Life
Story and photos by DAVID CAMPICHE