Every year in April, Cass gets really excited to go outdoors.
Not because of new calves.
Not because of planting season.
Not because it’s finally spring.
Because it’s mushroom season.
Morel mushrooms, to be exact.
They’re odd looking little things, aren’t they? I
sort of hate handling them. They are squishy, spongy, a little rubbery at the stems. They smell like dirt. I have to actively try not to remember that they are a type of fungus while I eat them.
But dang, they’re good. We like to coat ’em with a flour/egg mixture, then deep-fry huge batches and have a ‘Shroom Fest. Best. Appetizers. Ever.
So last weekend, Cass and I went mushroom hunting, in hopes of hosting another ‘Shroom Fest. I donned my Carhartt boots and a camo hat, and off we went into the timber.
There really is no skill to hunting mushrooms. You just walk, staring at the ground and hoping you don’t accidentally step on one (because that would be tragic). Cass walks at a much faster pace than I, so he roamed ahead while I toddled along behind with my basket. I felt like Little Red Riding Hood, minus the threat of hungry wolves.
To the left of the tree line is a cattle pasture; to the right is a very small, almost dried up creek. In between is supposed to be mushrooms.
We didn’t find a darn thing. Not ONE measly mushroom had popped up yet. My basket remained hopelessly empty.
We walked all the way to the fence line on one side of the creek, crossed at a dry spot, and went back down the other side looking.
It was very sad.
And then it got even sadder, because Cass’ spirit animal is a gazelle and mine is more of a turtle. And the gazelle wanted the turtle to jump across the creek (now wet and very muddy at this point).
LOL not happening.
So here’s what did happen.
“A happy young couple goes frolicking through the woods to look for mushrooms. Finding none, they decide to go home. The husband (Gazelle) sizes up the creek, takes a few steps back, and leaps to the other side, landing in squishy but safe mud. He turns, smiles, and says “Come on!” to the timid, less-coordinated wife (Turtle). The wife just laughs. The husband, ever the problem solver, grabs a large stick/small log and lays it gently across the creek. The Timid Turtle steps on, testing the strength of the stick, and steps daintily across. The husband escorts her off of the makeshift bridge by pointing to a less-muddy spot and saying, “Step there.”
The wife picks up her foot, heavy from the one-size-too-big-and-technically-men’s boot, and lunges for the less-muddy spot.
She misses, steps in an extremely-muddy spot, and coats her right boot/pant leg in sticky mud.
She screeches. The husband laughs.
Here’s to hoping that tomorrow’s hunt will go better. Happy Farmer Friday!