Stay and Eat

Frogs Courship Detail
The Frog's Courtship (detail) 2004

Meadow Mushrooms :

“The moon hath pulled the midnight mushrumps up.” (William Shakespeare.)

The fall I’m thinking of is not remembered by the glorious days, which I’m sure it had, of crisp blue skies and flame-colored leaves. Of all falls past, the one with the mushrooms was surely the best.

For one thing it was the final round of my first passionate love and we were just secure in our happiness. The end of that summer turned wet.

Day after day, misty rains watered the cow pastures, interspersed with still afternoons dimmed in to half-light by seamless grey clouds. It was never cold, but mellow cool. The light rains, more like descending mists than showers, veiled horizons and distances until the farm itself seemed distant from the outside world. The colors of the turning leaves were saturated with moisture to the deepest of reds and oranges, yet were muted in the pale mists to otherworld pastels, vivid only at close range, rich contrast to the damp darkened twigs and black-barked tree trunks.

The full moon came, and as was our lover’s custom, we wandered through the fields to wonder at it, ever-obscured this time; a ghostly orb behind a moving veil. The next day we saw them on the hill-pasture beyond the cow barn; scattered lines and wheels of white dots upon the close-cropped turf; meadow mushrooms… everywhere!

Each afternoon for a half-week, we took baskets with us on our walks. The cowpastures that saddle the ridge of our hill were thick with them. We could afford to be selective; picking only the largest and most perfect buttons, still snowy-white and dense at the size of golf balls! So perfect that I couldn’t resist gently squeezing and sniffing the flesh, like a cannibal, as I pinched off black loam from stems and piled them in my stash.

It was a daily reason to ramble over the low bottoms, listening to the distant calls of the crows, picking bouquets; of goldenrod, sapphire-toothed rods of lobelia, cerulean blurs of mistflower, tiny fragrant spirals of ladies tress; laid atop our baskets full of pink-gilled wonders, some hickory nuts stowed to one side. The walks were unhurried; the mushrooms were going nowhere, and we had nowhere else we’d rather be than walking slowly over the mellow autumn earth, talking quietly, gathering what we treasured most.

Back in the kitchen they became many delicious things. Never before nor since have I had so many mushrooms to eat, and we ate them every way I could think of. We dipped the bite-sized buttons in egg and rolled them in seasoned flour; frying them in an inch of oil until they were crisp brown on the surface, delicate toothy, yet molten earthiness inside. They stewed with a rabbit, some onions and a sprig of thyme in the maroon of a bottle of St. Emilion. They were sautéd in butter and poured with their buttery liquor over eggs scrambled with cream. When I saw that there was no end of them in sight, I singled out the tiniest tightest buttons, packed and peppered them in a widemouthed jar with spriggins of oregano and thyme, and marinated them in olive oil spiked with sherry vinegar, to eat as snacks, or dress the late lettuces, watercress, and arugula with.

The weather cleared, turned deep blue and brilliant, spiking the bottomlands with light frost. The leaves brightened, rallied to a high pitch in the sun and fell, in whispering red and gold drifts. Halloween came and went; November staked its claim on the chilly starlight and waning sun. We ate the last of the piquant oiled meadow mushrooms at Thanksgiving dinner.

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