Chicken

“There are old mushroom hunters, and there are bold mushroom hunters, but there are no old, bold mushroom hunters.”

So goes the old saying in our mycophobic culture. Most American children are not raised to gather edibles in the forest. We teach our kids not even to touch wild mushrooms, to stand back when a puffball blows its spores to the wind. We fear the fungus. 

Like many people, the first wild mushroom I ever gathered and ate was a morel. The distinctive shape, the hollow stem (or “stipe,” for those in the know) make it impossible to mix up a true morel with anything else.  And we do love our morels: sautéed with butter, scrambled into eggs, stuffed with wild rice and bacon, flavoring risotto with their exquisite, rich umami explosion.

But to borrow from Robert Herrick, gather ye morels while ye may, Old Time is still a flyin’. The season for morels is short, and the little morsels have an uncanny ability to hide from the seeker. They blend into the forest floor as if aware of the danger that lurks in the knife and basket clenched in a hunter’s hand, then present themselves when they know it is safe. The only time I have hit the mother lode of morels was while in Germany, hiking with friends, and staying in a hotel with no opportunity to use the beauties. They knew I was harmless.

I love the fancy mushrooms I find in our grocery coop, the crimini and shiitake, the lion’s mane and enoki. I’ve grown my own oyster mushrooms on rolls of toilet paper impregnated with spores. I’ve let myself be seduced by the ads promising a bountiful harvest of portobellos from a cardboard box of mycelium that just needs regular care, then faced the disappointment of a lonely lover waiting by the phone when the abundance never materialized. This year’s sparse morel season felt the same, though I never really expect to find a lot of them. They are just too clever, too skilled at the art of camouflage.

Behold the COW. Chicken Of the Woods.

Other wild mushrooms are not so shy. At my cabin this week, an old felled oak has erupted with a vivid, orange fungus. From my time spent on Facebook pages and perusing books devoted to edible wild mushrooms, I’m confident that I have Laetiporus sulphureus on my hands.

The Sulphur Shelf. That doesn’t sound all that appetizing, but how about it’s other common name: “Chicken of the Woods”? 

Mmmm, chicken!

There’s not much that could be confused with Chicken of the Woods. Poisonous Jack o Lanterns have gills, not pores. Chanterelles are orange, but they grow off earth, not wood – and I wouldn’t mind eating a few of those, anyway.

Yesterday, I pulled off the smallest, most tender, newest growth and brought it inside. My Facebook advisors confirm I have the Chicken, and I’ve seen many boasting of their delightful recipes.

Alongside those, though, are some who warn that this mushroom can cause upset stomachs in some. They recommend trying a tiny bit and see how it sits with you for a day or so before eating more. My beautiful coffee-table tome The Book of Fungi warns, “Unfortunately, [this mushroom] causes rapid-onset nausea and vomiting in some people, possibly as an allergic reaction.”

Mmmm? Chicken?

So now I sit, the true chicken of the woods, afraid to sample this so-called “choice edible.”  What say you, readers? Should I be daring and try something that might be another morel? Will this be like the time I ate mopane worms in South Africa? (They were crunchy, tasting more like the curry sauce they were in than like worms, though admittedly I don’t have many worm-degustation experiences with which to compare).  Do I follow the intention of the poet whose rosebud-gathering advice boils down to the even older adage of carpe diem?

Do I seize the mushroom? Carpe fungum?