Mushrooms in the spring

Well, we all got together for supper Sunday night.

It was a wintertime meal, even though we really wanted something to remind us of spring. We had roast pork, seasoned with sage and thyme from last summer’s herb garden. We have run out of corn in the freezer, so we had to make do with salad from a bag, mashed potatoes, canned green beans cooked in beef stock, and a quick peach cobbler made with a cake mix.

It was nobody’s birthday; nobody’s coming home or going away. Nobody graduated or got married or got born. It was just a usual Sunday-night, ya’ll-come, sit-and-eat-‘til-you’re-full, be-ready with-a-story-or-laugh-at-ours, supper. When the dishes were chugging away in the dishwasher and the crumbs were swept off the table. When the cat was fed and everybody settled in with their elbows on the table, we began to yearn for the first breath of spring.

We have played in the snow, and driven in it, gone flying down the Martinsville City Park hill, with and without a sled. We have worn big wooly sweaters and fluffy new sweatshirts. We have shoveled the driveway, cancelled plans on secondary roads, and lolled around the house on days that school was cancelled. We have fed the birds, marveled at the contrast of the scarlet Cardinals against the black branches and stark whiteness of the back yard, and laughed at the domestic disturbances of the sparrows at the feeder.

But now we feel that it’s time for spring. It is time to brush the snow off the herb garden, paint the flower boxes and fill them with geraniums. At least it is time to look for blue and yellow crocuses, playing hide and seek under the dogwood tree. It is time to start seedlings in little cups in the house, and leave the doors open to let the fresh air in.

At least that’s what we thought as we sat around the table and watched, again, still, snow blow against the window and pile up on top of the picnic table on the back porch. I told Daddy that it was time in my heart to go mushroom hunting.
I remember what the sponge morels look like as they hide just under the edges of damp leaves that lie on the floor of the woods. I remember the musty smell of the winter-weary woods as it begins to wake up and the first vegetation comes to life.

I remember that the first edible thing coming from the ground in the spring is actually a product of what went to sleep there last fall. I remember that we had to be careful when skirting the sinkholes down in Owen County but that was where the best mushrooms grew. There and under dead oak logs.

We would carry plastic bags in one hand and a stick in the other. Our eyes would scan the ground in front of our steps and we would keep in touch with each other with our conversation as we walked. Nice thing about mushrooms, you can’t scare them away with your voice like fish or deer. I was always the best at finding mushrooms, probably because I was a kid and closer to the ground.

It sounds morbid, but some of the best mushroom hunting was in old graveyards. I think it was just because no one ever went there and so they didn’t beat us to the mushrooms. It always pays to get there first, when mushroom hunting.

I remember that Daddy always told me to pick the mushrooms, not pull them up. Then you should shake them gently, releasing the spore back to the ground to grow more mushrooms to find the next time. I don’t know if there is truth in all that, but it didn’t hurt to do it anyway, just to be sure. Then we would bring the mushrooms home and cut them in half lengthwise. We soaked them over night in salt water and then laid them out on towels and patted them dry. Then next night for supper, Mother would heat some oil in the skillet and dip each mushroom half in flour and fry them in the hot oil. Then she laid them on a paper-towel-lined plate and we ate them for supper. I always put ketchup on mine, but most people eat them plain. I loved that earthy, nutty taste and crisp texture as I bit into them.

You just don’t get that flavor from mushroom you buy in the store. There’s nothing else like Indiana morel mushrooms anywhere n the world. If you don’t agree with me, call and tell me.

But you’ve gotta prove it to me. Randolph Adams and Sam Adams were brothers that lived and farmed across the road from each other. They each owned half of their family farm that was split up when their Daddy died. The only thing that separated their properties was the road, so their soil was identical, the landscape was pretty much the same and the weather was no different one from the other. But for some reason nobody could fathom, mushrooms only grew on Randolph’s side of the road.

And Randolph wouldn’t let Sam pick them. So every spring, Sam would sneak onto Randolph’s property and hunt mushrooms. Well, one day, Sam waited ‘til he saw Randolph drive off to town and he grabbed his bag and high-tailed it across the road, climbed Randolph’s fence and headed off over the hill.

When he reached the edge of the cow pasture, which was also the edge of the woods, he looked over his shoulder. The coast was clear, so he slipped into the darkness and started keeping his eyes open for mushrooms. When he had about half a bag full, he went back to the edge of the woods, looked to see if Randolph was home yet and started back across the pasture toward the fencerow.

But when he got about halfway across the field, he remembered, too late, Randolph’s new Angus bull. He had helped Randolph bring him home and put him in the field and Sam wondered how he could have been so stupid as to not remember.

But the bull remembered.

He hadn’t cared much for that stick Sam had used to prod him out of the trailer. Furthermore, instinct told him to protect his herd of lady cows from romantic rivals and perhaps, as a compliment to Sam’s good looks or as an insult to the bull’s intelligence, our friend the bull took it upon himself to hurry Sam along a little. He lowered his head and gave a little snort. Then he pawed the ground with one hoof and looked Sam straight in the eye. Sam looked back. Then he started walking backwards with his eyes on the bull. When he had taken about ten steps, suddenly Sam’s foot hit some kind of slick stuff in the grass and his feet flew right out from under him.

It didn’t take Sam long to get to his feet and this time he didn’t waste time running backwards. He took off at full speed across that cow pasture and straight for the fence. But it became very clear to Sam that he wasn’t going to make it. The old Bull was gaining on him fast. So he veered to his left just a little, headed straight for a big old tree that had a low branch and swung himself up in the tree. And that’s exactly where he was when Randolph came home. Sitting in that darn tree in dirty overalls with a sack of mushrooms still gripped tightly in his hand. Well, Randolph wasn’t in any hurry to go help him, so he pretended not to notice a man sitting in his tree in the cow pasture. His wife Lucille had supper just about ready, so andolph washed his hands and sat down to read the paper while she finished it up. Then he ate his supper, had a second piece of rhubarb pie and even helped Lucille wash up the dishes.

Just as he was drying the last plate, the phone rang. It was Sam’s wife, Liddy. She was worried that Sam hadn’t come home for supper and wondered if Randolph had seen him. Randolph told her not to worry. Said he knew right were Sam was and he’d go get him and tell him it was suppertime and he’d better get on home. Then Randolph went out and fed the cows at the trough near the barn. When the barn lot gate was safely closed and latched, he moseyed on out to the tree in the pasture and looked up it. “Well, Howdy, Sam.” Randolph said, “What are you doing up here in my tree?” “You know darn good and well what I’m doin’ up in this tree.

Now are you going to get me down or not?” Randolph looked around and scratched his head. He kicked at a root or two and then squinted up into the tree again. “Did you learn anything up there?

“Yeah, Randolph I figured out a lot.

I figured out just exactly how many fish I’ve got in my farm pond and who gets to go fishing there this summer. I figured out just how many rows of sweet corn I’m going to plant and how many hills of watermelons. I also counted out how much room I’ve got in my garden for tomato plants and how many poles of green beans I think I’ll put out this year.

That’s what I figured out while I was up here. Now get me down out of this tree, Randolph.” Well, Randolph thought about that for a minute and decided to tell Sam that the Bull was safely put away. He stepped aside while Sam got down and they walked back to the house together. Randolph loaned Sam a clean pair of overalls and drove him over home so he wouldn’t have to walk in the dark. As Sam got out of the truck, Randolph picked a plastic bag up off of the seat and handed it to him. “Sam, mind if Lucille and me come over for supper tomorrow night?” “Be glad to have you, Randolph, I’ll tell Liddy.”

“Much obliged.” Randolph said solemnly. “We accept your invitation.” Well, it just goes to show, we don’t really own anything on this green earth. We’re just here to enjoy it for a while. That’s the way I remember it, how do you remember it?

Season all your meals with love and don’t let your pots boil over.