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.

 

I Am Going Home

 

We were so lucky to be able to spend a lot of time with my grandparents when we were growing up.  When we were small and not yet in school, Grandpa would frequently come and collect us and take us to their house because my Grandma never learned to drive.  I am not sure what all we did when we were really young, but I do not remember ever being bored.  We played games, colored, ran around in the yard and picked berries or flowers from Grandma's garden, and played with neighborhood kids around their house on Lindale Street.  One rule, whether we were at home or at Grandpa and Grandma's, was that we had to take an afternoon nap.  Now that I am about the age my grandparents were, I suspect they may have needed the nap after a busy morning with a 2- and 3-year-old more than we did. 

One day when Grandpa was working and we were alone with Grandma, things did not go well and I got into trouble which resulted in a punishment that I do not remember specifically, but I do remember that I thought it was not fair. When we all laid down for our naps I waited patiently for Grandma and Viki to fall asleep and decided I was leaving and going home! I quietly got up from the couch I was resting on and slipped out the front door, walking the same way home that Grandpa always took us.  I went down to the corner, turning by Linda's house and up to the next corner turning again.  When I got to the top of the hill across from the pretty fenced-in park the Catholics owned, I turned right and crossed the street and headed up toward the dinosaur.  I liked that green dinosaur and Grandpa had even given me a little dinosaur bank that looked just the same!   Once I got there, I crossed the busy street by the eagle where Grandma did her grocery shopping, and then turned and crossed another street, heading to the little grocery store that for some reason Grandma did not shop in. 

I walked quite a long way down that road, passing the buildings where the nuns lived, past the street that went to the park, and down to where the red flying horse was.  Knowing to turn there, I walked a few more blocks until I could see Sandy's drive-in. I loved Sandy's hamburgers and chocolate milkshakes! That was a terribly busy street to cross, and I was very careful.  When I got to the other side, I started walking again going past Sandy's and past the tool store that Dad and Grandpa sometimes shopped in.  I did not have to go much farther because I knew to turn at the corner where the big kids went to school and kept walking.  I knew I was getting close to home and I was enjoying my walk.  I crossed the street a few more times along the way and was almost to our street when I saw Dad's car driving down the road in my direction.  About then it occurred to me that I might be in trouble for leaving Grandpa and Grandma’s, so I quickly ducked behind the house at the top of the hill and walked my way down the hill, through the backyards until I got home.  I do know that Mom and Dad were awfully glad to see me and that I did not really get into much trouble.  I remember them being quite amazed that not only had I had walked all the way home, but that I knew the way to go.

My poor grandmother woke up at some point and realized I had left the house.  She was frantic because she was home alone with 2-year-old Viki and did not drive.  She called Mom.  Mom called Dad who must have made record time driving all the way back into town from the John Deere Tractor Works.  I was seldom allowed to cross the street and I had never gone off on my own like that before but apparently I had no doubt that I knew my way home and that I could get there.  

As an adult remembering this little jaunt, I am amazed that no adult thought to question a 3-almost-4-year-old little girl, clearly on her own, walking along some of the busiest streets in Dubuque for over 2 miles.   For those of you reading this that have memories of Dubuque, my walk took me from Lindale Street, around Woodlawn, up Karen, and along Carter Road until I got to my long walk along Asbury Road.  From there I crossed University Avenue and walked down to where the University of Dubuque is, turning on Algona and heading a few more blocks to Hale Street.   

© 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.