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Joy! There's gold in these here woods! At the end of April here on the farm we start hunting for until-now buried treasure: morel mushrooms. Although they look like it, they aren't brains, or Prometheus' liver, but they do grow again overnight, as big as the palm of your hand in a few hours. At the first silver of morning, we slip into jackets and farm shoes and out to the fallen apple tree, and to the woods by the pond, to comb the grass (and new poison ivy shoots if we're not careful) like Sherlock Holmes.
Morel mushroom cells don't reproduce. These fruits of the mycelium organism under the surface of the ground expand with water, which is why they appear after rain storms. They have the same number of cells when they're big Titan thumbs as they did when they were tinier than a baby's toenail and sprouted from mycelium legs underground.
These filigree toes magically dig up through the woodsy soil into the air where we pinch them from their lacy underground body - sort of like that eagle snatching poor Prometheus' liver, then carefully tuck them into deep pockets, empty them onto the kitchen table, bugs and all, soak them in salt water, throw out the bugs, toss the preciousness in flour, and sauté until the filigree turns to gold.
Morel season is just a couple of weeks, and I can't bear to add them to any other food and lose a single sliver of their identity. Sautéed in butter (or in our case, Earth Balance soy margarine) is the only way we eat them.
And after each small plate of delectableness, when I've absorbed the earthiness into my body through my tongue and blissed-out mouth, I swear I never need to eat anything, ever again.
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