aka Morel Madness.
Don’t ask me where I found them because no self-respecting morel hunter will divulge the secret spots.
I grew up in the South. Morel ′shrooms do not exist in the south. When I married Better Half he told me stories of the great morel hunts he experienced in his youth in NW Missouri. I heard all about the elusive morels and how amazing they were when lightly coated with cracker crumbs and fried. Silly man, he had me at the word “fried”!
Unfortunately, since we moved immediately upon marriage to Alaska, morel mushrooms were not to be experienced. Until the farmer’s market, that is. One lovely, beautiful day a vendor was selling a stash of morels he’d had shipped. They were, to the best of my memory, $10 for a small bag. I bought a bag, followed BH’s directions for soaking, breading, and frying. Lovely Daughter (who’s not fond of mushrooms) and I swooned. We were SOLD. Unfortunately, so were all the morel mushrooms at the the next farmer’s market. They never graced our plate again while in Alaska.
Fast forward to living in the Ozarks. How exciting to be able to hunt morels! The key word is “hunt.” We found one our first year. We found ten two years ago. Ah, the pain and agony.
This week I literally stumbled upon a patch of them. The freaky thing is that I had just “planted” a concrete (aka fake) morel mushroom in one of my garden beds and while walking toward BH I almost walked on a morel! We’ve since found over 20 in this same area and none anywhere else–NONE. Zero. Nada. Seriously-how can this spot be the only place in the Ozarks sprouting morels?
When they hit the pan, the aroma is earthy, woody, yummy deliciousness. I’ll leave you craving morels. As for me, no moral dilemma–my priorities are with morels for the next few days!
Karma Per Diem 