Mushrooms and the hunt for them

My mother loved mushroom hunting. For those not sure what that is, it is what it says... hunting for mushrooms. Morel mushrooms to be exact. This is a morel:

Mushroom hunting for morels involves getting out in the woods during the first signs of spring in the Midwest, hunched over at the waist, eyes to the ground in search of the spongy edibles. In Indiana it is another rite of passage along with attending your first basketball game. There was no choice on whether you wanted to go or not in my family, and so I can add mushroom hunting to the list of things I have accomplished.

I vividly remember my hunts; traipsing through the woods near our family farm, one eye on the lookout for snakes and other crawling things, the other eye on the lookout for the fungi. I could have cared less about the whole experience except once involved my competitive nature, as well as my desire to please and fit in with the rest of my family, would kick in, and I would try to get just as many mushrooms as everyone else. I can still remember thinking I was the only one who knew that the mushrooms loved to hide under a may apple plant that had these giant leaves just perfect as a hiding place, and so I would try to spot those leaves first, and the thrill when I would lift that leaf and see a morel. Oh, pure joy.

I didn't go very often once I was a teenager, too much hiking, but my mother went every spring. One of her greatest memories was going to the farm and hunting with my cousin and his two boys. They had secret places that they would hunt and my mother was one of the few they would allow to accompany them. They would be gone all day, just hunting. Once she and the two boys went, just the three of them, and she use to tell us afterwards that she never thought to ask the boys, who were young at the time, if they needed to eat, or drink, or use the bathroom. She said they never complained and never said a word. They just kept hunting for mushrooms.

Once collected the mushrooms are washed and cleaned in the sink to ride them of dirt and small bugs. Then they are soaked in salt water for awhile. From there they are drudged through a mixture of salt, pepper, and flour and fried up in a pan of oil. I can honestly say that while I hate mushrooms of any other kind, I will eat a morel prepared this way. I don't crave them the way my mother did, her mouth would salivate just talking about them, but I enjoyed a few of them as an appetizer or with a meal. Of course as kids we weren't given a choice when it came to food; we just ate it.

When my aunt died a month or so before my mom did and I went back to the farm for the funeral, my cousin talked about the time he took my mom and her friend Jill mushroom hunting. When I told him that it was her wish to hunt mushrooms just one more time he told me that he was determined to get down south to visit her. Unfortunately she died before he could do that so he got into his truck and drove straight from Indiana so that he could be there for her memorial service. He pulled me aside and told me that when he got the news about mom he went out into the woods to mushroom hunt. The first place he walked into there was a large squared area full of large, plump mushrooms, enough to fill a huge bag. Which he brought with him to Florida.

He and my other cousin, who also drove down, fried them up in my kitchen after mom's service and we all ate morels, telling stories of our own hunting trips and stories of mom. My husband and the girls finally got to experience the mushrooms grandma talked about for so long, and we all agreed it was the greatest tribute to a woman who belonged to the Indiana Mycological Society.