oct 06 newsletter

good cateress, newsletter. Oct 06

Late last summer while staying at our friend Pippa’s house in the Green Mountains of southern Vermont. A clear glorious morning, I was walking beside the river that runs through the property observing damage from a storm the previous day. As the storm, that was clearly far worse further up the valley, had cleared, I had gone outside to watch the otter play in the pond, I could not think what the sudden roaring noise was or even where it was coming from. Looking down the hill from the house I realized that our usual sedate, lazy river was now a raging torrent of brown furious water, sweeping everything in its path away. I had never seen anything like it.

Today however the sun was out, the frogs and birds were singing; bees and butterflies flew feverishly among the late summer wild flowers, as if sensing the storm had presaged the end of summer.

Nearing the woods, where the ferns still dripped rainwater, the earth smell changed to the peaty mold of Fall. Here the fallen trees had tree mushrooms growing on them, the ripples of growth reminding me of waves on a beach. I had passed a few puffballs, still quite small, smiling in remembrance of jumping on the giant puffballs in England, watching the ‘puff’ of spores explode out of them. I had been told many times how delicious they were sautéed in butter but had never been tempted to try them. In fact after the heavy rains, there were now mushrooms and toadstools coming up everywhere, in a myriad of shapes and sizes, from the tiny fluorescent orange smaller than my finger nail, to huge wet brown shapes that I did not recognize. If only I knew what they were?

I walked further into the woods and stopped in my tracks. There before me was a Porcini mushroom. I knelt down beside the mushroom, looked at it from every angle, smelt it, looked underneath at the gills. I know that toadstools like to mimic mushrooms and the surefire way to tell is the color of the gills. This however looked like the real thing. I walked on but kept coming back to the ‘porcini’ looking at it wondering; worried about it. After a good amount of time, I carefully picked the ‘porcini’ and carried it back to the house. It was a beautiful mushroom.

For the rest of the day I came back to the mushroom and thought about it. Would I or wouldn’t I cook it? In the end I did not cook it, I was too worried about being alone and eating a poisonous mushroom. All the childhood tales of people dying from poisonous mushrooms, adult tales too. I couldn’t do it. I threw the mushroom out. I still think about it. I know it would have been divine!

In England a slightly different experience of mushrooming, here we knew our favorite mushroom, where it grew and when to pick. After the first September rains, the sou’wester I realize now are the remnants of Atlantic Hurricanes. We would ready ourselves for the appearance of the first field mushrooms. Looking out of the upstairs windows we could see our nearest mushroom field. Simon, my brother, would walk the dogs over it that afternoon reporting back that there was no sign of any mushrooms. A decision would be made that we would get up early , certain that by the next morning the mushrooms would appear.

Walking along the River Medina, we climbed over the wooden stile into the field, the dogs slid underneath and were already running around excitedly. A low lying mist lay along the field as the rains and dew were burnt off by the warming sun. We all set off in different directions, heads bent to the ground, in my case I looked up periodically to check the field and where exactly the cows were. All the mushroom fields seemed to have cows in them, apparently the two things went together. I had been chased and herded by cows through all too many a field.

Simon, who inherited my fathers mushroom instinct, was always the first to shout ‘I've got one,’ slowly there would be echoes of “me too” and then silence we were all too intent on picking.

There they would be; the white caps peeking through the long grass. The ancestor of the cultivated white mushroom, full of flavor. The smaller mushrooms caps tight and furled; others opening up in the warmth of the sun ready to drop their spores. Mushrooms in fairy circles mixed with fairy cap toadstools which amazed and delighted me. As we were in cow pastures, some came up through cow pats, no one picked those ones. Some had maggots, how? They were a few hours old, but everything wanted a taste of mushroom.

Walking home the air was full of the musty mushroom smell; we were starting to salivate with anticipation over our breakfast treat. We were barely in the door, knowing instinctively our task, mum was laying out rashers of bacon on the grill pan. We were spreading the mushrooms out on newspapers on the kitchen table, sorting them. Peeling the ones we were having for breakfast; setting aside others for soup for lunch. A little bacon grease in the skillet, the sliced mushrooms were added, the kitchen full of the woodsy aroma of cooking mushrooms, toast was being made. This, one of the great all time breakfasts, something I have not eaten in 23 years.

Mushroom soup remains one of my favorite things to eat. I buy a mix of mushrooms; button, cremini, shiitake and a portabella. Saute onions and garlic in butter, then add the wiped and sliced mushrooms, gently cooking the juices flowing, I like fresh marjoram, sherry and a little cayenne for flavor. I learnt while cooking with two Sicilian lady cooks, about the Fungi stock cubes from Italy. For the longest time you could not get them here and I would ask friends going to Italy to look for them, but Star brand now sells them here, I find that this adds that wild mushroom flavor to soups, stews and risottos, which makes such a difference to the taste. I let the mess ‘o’ mushrooms, cook quietly for about an hour, until the flavors are melded. I add flour to make a roux paste, then slowly add a combination of milk and homemade chicken stock.



jane mcqueen-mason
212 665 2704