When I said, "Let's go look for morels," Lissa corrected me, saying, "Let's go FIND morels."
The river had been out of its banks recently. My one attempt to check out the area ended with my rubber boots sinking in mud. I turned back, lest I become a permanent fixture on the path.
At the morel enclave, Lis found the first few mushrooms. I couldn't seem to see any, because what I was looking for was not what was there. When I finally changed my sights to silt-covered morels, I started to catch up in the race to capture the elusive fungi.
The river was out of its banks on April 6. The morels must have come up in the last couple of days, and pushed up through the silt the receding river left behind. The mesh bags are to let the spores fall out and make more morels.
We never know if we will find the woodland goodies in April or May. Once, I found some in early May in snow. They are tricky.
Driven by extreme greed, we wandered all over, getting snagged on wild rose thorns. Lis found this dear little bird nest on a bit of brush. Only thirst made us give up the search. It was a humid 82 degrees.
Once they had a bath in salt water and several changes of rinse water, they were ready for the skillet. This was our biggest haul, two pounds and three ounces.
Morels are simply more mushroomy than any other mushroom. The flavor is exquisite. I think it's Mother Nature's way of luring us out into the woods in springtime, to enjoy the wonderful wildflowers.
