Mushroom Memories
delicious, delightful, (sometimes) deadly
I would not claim to have a great memory or even a good one. My brother frequently recalls stories from our youth that I have no memory of. Great stories that I wish I could remember, but they have slipped away. On the other hand, there are a few memories that run so deep that they will stay with me for eternity. In these memories, I can smell the air, hear the sounds, and recall the events with ease. One of these such memories is the first time I ever harvested, cooked, and ate a wild mushroom.
It was an August day on the shores of Lake Nagawicka in Southeastern Wisconsin. My grandparents lived on this lake and as a kid, this was my summer camp. Kayaking, fishing, swimming, yard games, Grandma’s buttered pasta, and constant reggae music became intertwined with my childhood.
The Dunn house sat in a magnificent grove of oak trees so tall that they towered over the house and you nearly fell backwards when you looked to the top. The tree canopy created a cool, damp world beneath that would sprout mushrooms throughout the year.
One summer, a beautiful mushroom started growing at the base of one of the trees. It was fan shaped and incredibly colorful. At its center, it was bright sunflower yellow, but as it radiated out to the edges, the color became darker until at the tip, it was a deep jack o'lantern orange. Every nook and cranny had the most wonderful texture that held space for an entire world to call home. As summer progressed, it didn’t stop growing and by August, it was massive. However, none of us knew what it was or what was possible with this mushroom, we just thought it looked lovely.
That was until my Great Uncle, Cassim arrived for the summer reunion. I don’t think the car made it down the length of the driveway before he got out to marvel at the mushroom.
Cassim, born Cornelius, was the oldest of the Dunn siblings and lived in Taos, New Mexico. He has a magnificent story, so I’ll dive into it as briefly as I can. Corky, as he was called as a kid, was incredibly smart and made a career in the San Francisco financial world during the 60s’. Somewhere along the way, he became interested in Sufism and despite being raised in a strong Irish Catholic family, converted to the religion and was given the name Cassim. Soon after, he moved to Taos and began a new life laying artistic tile and growing unique strains of peppers and dahlias. Additionally, Cassim had a passion for the outdoors and was one of the first people to teach me how to cast a fly rod.
In addition to fly fishing, Cassim had an incredible knowledge of edible mushrooms. This was on full display the second he saw the mushroom at my grandparents house. After chastising my grandfather for not knowing what it was, Cassim grabbed a paring knife and was slicing chunks off.
I was enamored that this man was going to eat this creature popping out of the tree. It was totally foreign to me. All I knew about wild mushrooms was; DO NOT EAT. And this thing was screaming DO NOT EAT.
I asked Uncle Cassim what it was. He said, “this is a Chicken of the Woods” and for some reason having chicken in the name did nothing to make me feel like it was food. Nonetheless, I trusted Cassim’s words more than divine intervention. I watched him carefully cut off the nicest parts of the mushroom and place them in a large bowl. We brought them inside and dusted off the bugs and dirt. He set me up with a cutting board and knife and requested I slice the mushroom into strips. I did my best.
Next, Cassim began to heat up a skillet. He coated the mushroom strips in a light olive oil, salt, and pepper, and tossed them in the hot pan. To this day, I can hear the sizzle, smell the olive oil, and see the radiant colors on the mushroom. He cooked them for just a few minutes; enough to get them crispy, but not drain all of the moisture out.
It was like nothing I had ever eaten before. Similar to chicken, a bit rubbery, very flavorful, and a powerful memory.
On that August day, eleven year old Cliff did not realize that a seed had been planted or rather, a spore had germinated. For years, I never harvested another wild mushroom. I saw mushrooms and wondered if I could eat them, but never took the next step. That was until about two years ago when I first visited the Pacific Northwest. I knew that mushrooms were royalty out here and by this point, I had listened to enough Paul Stamets to be very interested. I started paging through mushrooming books in the forest service office and grabbed a few free pamphlets.
Then, it happened. On a trail in Southwest Oregon, I found a King Bolete, also known as porcini. I checked my pamphlets, cut it down, and brought it back to the truck. In my truck bed-kitchen, I replicated the same process Cassim had shown me some dozen years ago. It was the best mushroom I had ever eaten.
I was jazzed! I felt connected to nature in a way that I hadn’t felt in a long time. I felt like I knew something. Like I had some tangible skill that could help me survive the apocalypse. I was hooked, and this time, the hook was buried deep.
Fall can be characterized by many things, but last weekend, it was Chanterelles. On a rainy Saturday, a couple friends, a dog, and I went out to do some foraging. We started in the same area that I had found the morels in this story. Which turned out to be a terrible area for chanterelles. Way too much ground cover and the wrong type of trees.
We left for a new area that we had spotted off the road on the way in. This was chanterelle territory and it was evident within minutes. Sydney, aka the mushroom queen, found a few right off the bat and then spotted this beautiful cauliflower mushroom from a distance away. Within an hour, we had a basketful of mushrooms.
We cruised home, cooked up the shrooms and ate a lovely dinner. With the chanterelles, we did the classic dry saute and salt + pepper. With the cauliflower, we made yakisoba. Cauliflower mushrooms are absolutely gorgeous and very tasty. They retain their structure during cooking and take on a texture much like egg noodles. This makes them perfect for a beef stroganoff or any noodle dish.
If you ever come across one in the wild, you must go say hello. And while you’re there, smell it. Seriously, get up close and take a deep breath through your nose. The cauliflower mushroom is one of the most magnificent smells I have ever encountered. Think of high end vanilla that has been infused with the flavors of an ancient forest. It’s lovely.
I got the mushroom bug as a kid, but it never took hold until I grew up. It has been a lovely way for me to reconnect with the natural world. I fish frequently and talk about fishing nearly all day during the week. I love being on the water, but the woods have become a new sanctuary. The smells, sounds, and sights are powerful, and foraging for mushrooms has been a great avenue to experience all these things.
It is intimidating to forage mushrooms, as it probably should be. Some are incredibly poisonous, but at the same time, some can save your life. Humans have been eating wild mushrooms for ages. To not eat wild mushrooms is an abnormality. To eat wild mushrooms is good for the soul and I highly recommend it. Get a mushroom book, I like Mushrooming With Confidence by Alexander Schwab. And go for a walk in the woods. You will be surprised by how much of what you see, you can eat. Proceed with a curious caution and do not eat anything you are not 100% certain is safe.
My Great Uncle Cassim is from a generation of men that is all too hard to find in this day and age. I can count on one hand how many I know that still walk this earth. I dearly miss those that have passed on, but I am eternally grateful for the lessons they taught me. I look forward to the day when I can pass on that same knowledge.
That was really awesome to read Cliff! I remember hunting for Chanterelles with my Dad in Big Sure and having that same experience. He'd have been tickled to read this!
I whole heartedly agree with the comments below. Cassim was the first person I thought of when I read about the cauliflower you and friends gathered recently. Bravo on another lovely piece.