Foraging has begun in earnest. Everything popped up so quickly. I now get why everyone is into the rain gardens, or at least have a theory. Those prairie grasses start as gorgeously strange babies peeking out of the dirt, and people fall in love with them and that parental attachment sticks around in August, blinding them to the lanky unkempt weeds their babies have become. Save your hate mail, prairie people. I’ll come around once I can figure out which of those weeds I can eat.
Anyway, this isn’t about the grass. It’s about mushrooms, which I am looking for everywhere and, so far, am failing to find. Morels, which I haven’t tried, though I am eager to buy into the hype. People are strange and secretive about them in a way that they aren’t about other mushrooms. And now that all I need is some standing dead elms, every tree I see is an oak.
I won’t say my midweek foray to the lazy, golden-lit Sugar River was a waste. In the woods I found a goose skull, an unidentified predator’s jawbone, the world’s ugliest woody mushroom (so sad I didn’t photograph), two edible Agaricus mushrooms, a twig with black goiters, and two brown puffs whose kingdom none in my group could identify. And the above-pictured wild garlic, which I sniffed out and found good. I have not yet researched what kind they are. I have been eating various wild Allium from lawns since I was a toddler, although I am no longer under the delusion that knowing how to find these will alone save me if I am ever lost in the woods for an extended period, such as if all our cities are destroyed.
But if I can find some eggs, they do make a lovely omelet.