Hunting Morels

Even the name makes my mouth water. It has been a lot of years since I sat down to a plate of morels, but every year they haunt my memory.  In the late spring, after the snow had slowly melted away and the earth was moist and full of fragrance my Grandma Sadie and Grandpa Maurice would go foraging for morels.  They had several spots that they would go to each year, and you had to promise to keep the location a secret. I knew that it was a special thing to be included as the secluded locations were to be treasured and protected for the hunt "next year" and you did not tell "just anyone" where those precious spots were. 

Morels were mainly to be found somewhere near a rotting log or fallen tree.  Their little rounded waffle like heads would be peeking up from the humus rich soil below last year's leaves and twigs or they might surprise you as you moved the early spring grass and weeds around with your hands.  No matter the size, from as small as my young thumb to as big as Grandpa's hand, they would be carefully pulled up and stored in a sack.  One of the locations I remember going was near the Julien Dubuque monument which is high on a hill with a beautiful view overlooking the Mississippi River and the outlet from Catfish Creek on the outskirts of Dubuque.  I think there is now a fence there, but we used to make our way up and down very carefully on the steep slope and around the backside of that hill.  It was usually a goldmine for morels.  

With our bag full of morels, we headed home, and the anticipation would begin. As we would watch with our heads just barely above the countertop, Grandma would fill the sink with fresh water and carefully set several morels in at a time to be swished around to remove any dirt still hanging on to the mushrooms.  Then she would trim the stem edges and except for the smallest ones, she would cut the morels in half, top to bottom.  From there they were laid out on clean kitchen towels to drain, patted dry then wait on mealtime to be cooked.  I remember running out to look at those morels on the towels.  They had such beautiful patterns and intricacy that several years later when I was in high school, I made a silver pendant based on that memory.

When the time came, Grandma put on her apron and pulled out her large cast iron fry pans. She would turn on the burners, put the pans in place and heat them up before tossing in generous chunks of fresh butter to foam up, slide around on the hot surface as they melted and then sizzled. Grandma would lay the morels in the pan a few at a time so that they would brown in the butter but not steam each other.  Between the smell of browned butter and those morels, our feast could not come fast enough!  As they were finished the morels were put on a platter in the warming oven and the process repeated a couple of times until they were all cooked.  

Grandma would pull the platter from the oven and set it on the dining table. One of the most distinct memories I have of my grandmother was hearing her call "Dinner's ready" any time we visited their home, and we were always happy to come running. I can not remember anything else on the table besides the morels but knowing my grandmother I imagine there was a plateful of other good things to go along.  With a pile of morels served up on my plate, I would cut off a piece, close my eyes and pop that bite into my mouth.  

Heaven.  

In my memory, their taste is delicate and distinctive, a wonderful gift from nature.

© Karla Von Fumetti Staudt

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored on a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise – without prior permission of the copyright owner and publisher.