Foraging for mushrooms and meaning

Today, I am on the lookout for Painted Suillus. It’s a common wild mushrooms that the guide books identify as a good edible that has no look alikes. It is a firm yellow mushroom that seems to have more body that some of the others I have been collecting. Basket on my arm, the folding knife lovingly given to me by D.D. on my hip, I move down the road with a sort of easy concentrated effort. The red convex cap is easy to spot and there are enough of them that I don’t feel compelled to harvest any other kind.

I have been hunting mushrooms for some three weeks now and my pantry is stocked with bags of boletes (mushrooms that have a sponge on the bottom, as opposed to gills) that Stephen and I have sliced and dried. So far, I have used them to make a creamy wild mushroom sauce that I served over cheese ravioli and as a base for veggie burgers. Using my food dehydrator and a wide variety of ingredients, it is my goal to assembly a variety of dried soups and rice/noodle entrees from the garden harvests. So far, I have dried mushrooms, some of which were pulverized into powder, onions, squash, green onions, garlic, peppers, broccoli, tomatoes, cabbage and string beans. I even dried some red-bean chipotle chili and pulverized that for the basis of a sauce.

At lunch on Saturday, in celebration of son Zac’s 26th birthday, I told him about my experimentation and how frivolous it seemed. I said that as a seminary student I ought to be falling in love with the writing of Emerson or the mystics of the 13th century, not investing energy into dried convenience mixes for friends and family.

He said it didn't seem frivolous to him and I am surprised that I think that scholastic pursuit is more justifiably productive than being out in the woods and learning something about the rhythms of nature and food production.

Dodger, my 13-year-old dog, enjoys the mushroom gathering activity as we pick our way through the dappled sunlight in a slow and easy manner. I am aware of his frailty and the limitation of time that we have to spend together. In crossing the Grassy Swamp stream on protruding rocks, I make sure that he sees me move to the other side. He has become nearly deaf and often doesn't respond when I call him. (Sometimes, though, he hears just fine and it’s questionable that he isn’t just taking a privilege of age and ignoring my call.)

I am soothed by this newly discovered abundance from the woods. In the face of shrinking resources and fears of environmental degradation, it is a pleasant surprise to become awakened to a complex, self-sustaining world, which, when careful, we can consume with great delight.