Chad Shuman had ­just dropped three tons of stone dust with surgical precision next to our catalpa tree. As the dust settled and the startled warblers burst back into song, we started talking mushrooms.

Morels, to be specific.

It was my favorite kind of Perry County conversation. Man hops down from heavy equipment and starts holding forth on a local natural obsession. In this case, those elusive braniac stalks of spring, Morchella esculenta.

M. esculenta are the “yellow” or “common” morels. Perry County is also host to M. deliciosa, the “white” morel, and M. elata, the “black” morel.

You don’t have to be a Latin scholar to decipher the “deliciosa” part of the white morel’s species name. Delicious. You might even get the word “elated” from the black morel’s name, “elata.” Or, more accurately, “sublime.”

My Latin’s pretty rusty. I had to look up the “esculenta” of the common morel. Apparently it simply means “edible.”

But to hear Chad wax poetic about the morel, you’d think they were all sublimely delicious; there was nothing common about any of them. Of course, the morel-lover does have to watch out for the so-called “false morel,” which can trick you with its brain-like convolutions, only to land you in the hospital after a tasty fry-up.

I don’t think Chad uttered the Shakespearian phrase, “Beware the false morel!” but that was my take-away.

I learned that morels like to grow in the shadow of mature elm and poplar trees. Chad cast an experienced eye across our property. “See that hill there?” he said, pointing to an eastern-facing rise. “They’d like that, being in the sun.” But then he shook his head ruefully. “Of course, wrong kind of trees.”

 Then he pointed to a wild hillside covered with thorn thickets and scrub pine. “That’d be a decent place to look,” he said. Another rueful shake of the head. “Wrong exposure, though.”

Finding morels is a challenge, even for seasoned hunters like Chad and his wife Denise, whose idea of fun on a wet spring evening is to hop on four-wheelers and chase mushrooms in the fading light.

Actually, it sounds like a blast, especially if you’re not terribly allergic to poison ivy, which is a bumper crop in both of the locations Chad pointed out on our property.

I’ve met at least one other morel-maniac in Perry County, Jason Blumenschein, whose love of the strange little mushroom carries into the off-season, when he carves elaborate morels in wood, sort of like a cave-painter dreaming about last year’s hunt. Chad knew all about Jason from the internet, where Jason recently posted a photograph – complete with a copy of the Perry County Times, to date-stamp it – of the season’s first morel.

I found the very picture on Facebook, on a page devoted to morel fanatics. Jason’s was just one of hundreds of pictures of trophy morel hauls from all over the country. Some of the hunters liked to display huge mounds of fungal bounty, which only seemed casually heaped until you read the captions, with their precise break-downs by species and number. Other pictures showcased massive individual morels – “lunkers,” I suppose you’d call them, hopeful candidates for the bragging rights of “year’s biggest.” Jason’s picture represented yet another arena of these high-stakes mushroom games: the “first fungus” competition.

Setting aside the partisan thrill of seeing the masthead of the Perry County Times in Jason’s picture, I had to wonder about the intensity of these morel-seekers. The only other time you’re likely to see a newspaper in a photo to prove the date is…maybe in the course of a kidnapping?

But back to the stone dust. As Chad climbed back into the cab of his truck, he gave me a few tips on cooking morels. Sauteing in butter is a fan favorite, as is lightly dredging the mushrooms in flour and frying them.

“I’ve never eaten a morel,” I said.

“No? Really?” Chad said. A look of pity swept across his face. I’d clearly been missing out on one of life’s great pleasures.

And then, with the optimism of a man who has great confidence that he’s going to bag his limit, he said, “We may have some extras for you to try one of these days.”

Looking forward to it! Meanwhile, if you need pinpoint delivery of stone dust or shale, or some expert excavating, Chad can be reached at 438-3843.

Just don’t ask him where he finds his morels. Apparently, that’s not a question one asks a mushroom hunter.

At least, not in polite society.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This column was published in the Perry Co Times on 12 May 2011

For more information, please contact Mr. Olshan at writing@matthewolshan.com