Boules and boletes

This week just ending yielded a first for the Better Half and me, a previously unseen mushroom species growing along the south edge of the driveway, old man of the woods. Until this discovery, I had been the holder of that title around here. Finding photos to aid in identification was an issue until I thought to check Minnesota Seasons, mushrooms (select “The List” tab). Here’s an example of our specimens.

“old man of the woods” mushrooms

Photo by J. Harrington

The sourdough we made up yesterday baked up wonderfully this morning. I think the problems with the prior loaf were that the starter was overdue for a major refresh, that I “pushed” the starter before it had been freshened enough, and then I messed up baking it in an oven that was 50℉ hotter than the recipe called for. Each of those were avoided this time and the Better Half informs me this loaf is even tastier than the one before last, about which I was bragging recently in these pages.

today’s sourdough boule

Photo by J. Harrington

I suspect that the appearance of the old man mushrooms, together with several others thaat have cropped upp on the property this summer, is largely due to the abundance of precipitation we’ve “enjoyed” this summer. Better now than in January and February, I suppose.

We’ve been leaving the tray of bergamot seedlings out on the deck overnight, to harden them off. This morning they experienced their first ever real rain, some of which came down pretty hard. The more fully developed seedlings seem to have come through fine. It may take a day or two to see if those that were on the fragile side survived being pounded on.

Mushrooming

Jeffrey Harrison

Christopher and Helen, our new expatriate friends,
meet us at their favorite winery
where they fill their plastic jerry cans from hoses
exactly like the ones at gas stations,
as though they were planning to go back home to Aix
and treat their lawnmower to a nice red.
Instead, they take us in their forest green Peugeot
to the home of their old friend Brigitte
in a village at the foot of Mont Ventoux—
actually, not a village, Brigitte corrects me,
but “un hameau,” a hamlet. The French
are exacting about such distinctions, but Brigitte
has a kind, mischievous smile. Back in the car,
we tear along a series of rutted, stony roads
that web the mountainside, with Brigitte
directing Christopher, “à droite, à gauche, encore à gauche,”
until we come to a grove of pines, cedars, and oaks,
where she says the mushrooms are hidden.
We fan out under the trees, searching the slope,
while Brigitte, looking elfin in her orange hoodie,
waves a stick like a wand, pokes at the dried pine needles
or the dead leaves under the wild boxwood bushes,
and sings, “I think there are some over here,”
like a mother leading her toddlers toward the Easter eggs.
We laugh and follow after her, cutting the stems
with a tarnished knife she lends us, warning
“Faites attention,” because the blade is sharp.
And gradually we fill our plastic shopping bags
with gnarled orange caps, stained green,
which, much later, back in the States, I learn
are called Lactarius deliciosus or
orange-latex milky, like a shade of paint,
the field guide commenting “edible, although
not as good as the name deliciosus suggests”—
but we already suspect that (they look awful),
and we will later unload most of ours on
Christopher and Helen who clearly think of them
as a delicacy… but right now we’re
having fun just hunting for them
among the sunspots on the forest floor,
filling our bags, and shouting through the trees
to one another, the whole afternoon gathering
into the giddy moment that Brigitte keeps
calling us back to—and it’s delicious.

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