O, Solo Morel

At first, I thought it was a cruel twist of fate. Two of our neighbors-- A. & K. across the street, and J. down the block-- have morels growing in their yards. In ours, of course, nothing.

J. mentioned her discovery at a party the other night; my eyes narrowed with jealousy.

And then, two nights later, A. came bounding across the street. In his hand was a massive bee-hive of a mushroom. "The bastard," I thought to myself. "The lucky bastard."

Of course I smiled and congratulated him on his find. A. noted that morels tend to crop up in the same spot year after year, so this boded well for the future. I, for my part, rehearsed the popular wisdom that morels tend to flourish beneath rotting elm trees. And there was indeed a elm tree slowly dying in his yard. "How expensive for you," I offered in sympathy.

But A.'s spirits could not be dampened by a few spiteful words. And so he bounded back across the street to rejoin K. and cook the mushroom.

We went on with our evening, cleaning up after our forgettable meal of-- of-- literally forgettable food. Shortly thereafter, as I was mooning around, doing nothing in particular, I was surprised by a knock on the door.

It was A., and he had brought with him a dainty bipartite dish. In one half there were two small fragments of the morel, which K. had sautéed. In the other half of the dish there was a rich mushroom cream sauce. A. handed me the dish, dashing back to finish off his portion before it got cold.

It was an amuse-bouche like none other I've tasted.

I later asked them how K. had made the sauce; here is A's response:

"I liked the mushroom but LOVED the sauce. It was so mushroomy. K.'s
gone for the day, so I'll try to remember what was in it. Lemon juice, garlic, butter, the mushrooms, salt, and cream. But then she said it didn't quite have any zing. So she followed your suggestion of a wee bit of soy sauce, which made it sing."

That closing rhyme says it all.

Or at least, it says most of it. Central Pennsylvania is prime morel country. One can, on occasion, find withered specimens languishing on the supermarket produce shelves. And from time to time we've been snookered by such displays. But a fresh-caught wild mushroom is rare prey indeed. I once went morel hunting with a senior colleague of mine, tromping across moor and mire for hours. And though we were visiting time-honored mushrooming ground, we, like A., found exactly one specimen.

Only the morel we found was decapitated, a hollow tube with no substance. We left it where it lay. We've never since spoken of our adventure, as if this failed mission were too traumatic to bear.

But now this broken memory can be retired. And in its place is the image of A., grinning from ear to ear, bearing a tiny enamel dish. No longer a twist of fate, but an act of magnanimity.

---

In other news, I made carnitas last night from a recipe that can be found here.

Best tacos ever. I salted the pork overnight, as the recipe suggests, and this was certainly a good idea. Fresh-made corn tortillas also benefited the dish.

I'll cherish this recipe-- just as I will cherish the two little pieces of morels and their sauce.