Forget breakfast in bed or a restaurant brunch. My husband, who knows me so well, organized instead a multi-family morel-hunting expedition to celebrate Mother’s Day. Location? Well now, I’m not going to reveal that. All I will say is that we went to an area that burned in a wildfire last summer. We were capitalizing upon the tendancy of morels to fruit prolifically the season that follows a fire event. The girls eagerly joined the hunt, although they have soundly rejected the taste of morels in the past. M. in particular was tireless in her pursuit, scrambling up steep, slippery, needle-covered slopes and scanning the forest floor for these tricky little fungi. Morels were well-camouflaged among pine cones and bits of charred wood, but we brought in quite a haul.
We are novices to morel preservation, but found that online advice convened around keeping the fungi well-aerated while drying. We strung up our catch in a ventilated greenhouse, hoping to enjoy our morels for months to come.