Is this what it feels like to be a seed when spring comes around? In March a band snapped in my head, like the warmth had altered my brain chemistry.
For me, morel obsession returned.
Green shoots were barely finger-length coming up in the forest when I began pulling over to push myself through brambles. I always feel that if I simply look hard enough, the mushrooms will appear in front of me. And if I get up early enough I will be able to outsmart the mushrooms.
In reality, someone outsmarted me and my lady friends this week. Someone else was earlier still to the tree we refer to as Magic Trees #1 and #2. We were skunked, and dismayed/encouraged/jealous/livid/crazed to see the giant fresh stumps. We found a few, enough for a tart (with caramelized onions, washed down with dandelion wine). I have a backup spot or two. I have to find the time, amid moving and deadlines, to sneak out there.
If I reacted this way to alcohol, I’d be in serious trouble. This physical craving will be satisfied only when I am clutching a giant pillowcase full of fungus. It would be good for me to set my sights on a consolation prize, just in case. Ramps, I tell myself, they are nice enough, and they don’t sneak away when you’re not looking.