Today we took my friend’s dad, Alex, mushroom hunting with
us. He’s Russian (Ukrainian,
actually), and has been foraging all his life. I asked him to come along because I wanted to learn about
food preservation, old ways from his country, although of course I thought it
would also be nice to see him.
When I called to request a visit and potential interview, he warned me
that he doesn’t know anything about food preservation. He only knows what he does, which he
learned from his mother, grandmother, and various family friends back
home. Precisely what I was hoping
for. Alex is indirectly my teacher
when it comes to mushrooms. He
taught a friend who later taught me, and I was so inspired and excited to learn
more that I continued to pursue knowledge about other mushrooms. That was nearly 10 years ago.
Back home, I’m typically an early riser. Here in the woods, I’ve grown accustomed
to sleeping in a bit. So when he
said he’d pick me up at 6:30AM, I asked if he could make it 7:00. With the storms (monsoons, as they are
referred to here in Colorado) usually threatening us by mid-afternoon, this
seemed a wise choice. We arrived
at one of my favorite spots around 9:00 after a car ride filled with
stories. Growing up in a communist
country, Alex and his family relied on foraged foods to round out their meals. As his knowledge grew, he also used his
foraging skills to make money. He
could sell a handful of crawfish for what would buy him 10 pieces of candy.
He started out not knowing much at all about mushroom
hunting but learned very quickly, mostly, as he said, by making mistakes. For example, one day he was poking
around the forest for mushrooms, not finding anything he recognized. He and a friend picked loads of milk
mushrooms (lactarious deliciousus) not knowing what they were or whether or not
they were even edible. They later
stumbled upon a patch of shrooms they recognized from the market, and one by
one started tossing out those orange and green milks. They noticed that an older woman began following them,
picking up those mushrooms they were tossing out and stashing them in her apron
(he animated this process while driving, making for an adventurous drive up the
windy canyon). That’s how he
learned that the milk mushroom was “first class.” He also learned about the white porcini by making a huge
mistake—after harvesting an entire car trunk full, he tossed them out in
exchange for the regular porcini upon later discovering a patch. Learning the hard way is never easy,
but it works.
Chanterelles, on the other hand, he told me are “third
class.” In order to make them
edible, they must be boiled three times, changing the water between boils, then
they can only be used for soup or stew.
I wouldn’t completely agree, but I prefer hawks wings, a mushroom that
no restaurant in town will serve but that all the chefs request from us for
their own meals. Chanterelles are so
much more beautiful and fragrant than delicious. On top of it all, in California, they grow with my friend,
poison oak. When hunting for
chanterelles, I like to disguise myself as mugwort by tucking the leaves of the
plant in my hair, pockets, and shoes because poison oak and mugwort seem to
like each other—at least they also typically grow next to each other—in hopes
that the poison oak will leave me alone.
Between that and eating it, I haven’t had a bad outbreak in a couple of
years. Chanterelles, in my
opinion, really aren’t worth the trouble, and my Ukrainian friend full
heartedly agrees… although when the season comes around, I always seem to
forget this. I guess I love the
hunt.
Throughout the day, I learned all sorts of things like how
to salt and smoke fish, how to preserve raw strawberries with sugar, make
sauerkraut, pickled apples and watermelons (yes, pickled watermelons, whole!),
and so much more. I also learned
that if you have an accent, you don’t speak around other pickers in the forest—especially
other Russians. Secret spots are
guarded carefully. I had the
pleasure of taking him to my best spot, the best he’s ever picked so he told
me—“one word, Erica, crazy.” He
said this over and over all day.
We quickly filled our baskets, hiked them to the car, then
spent several more hours hiking, barely stopping for lunch. By the end of the
day, my mouth hurt from smiling so much, my legs hurt from hiking so much, and
my arms hurt from carrying so many mushrooms… and I thought he’d be slow in his
older age. Between Andre and I, we
gathered nearly 70 pounds; Alex took home at least another 20. Stopping several more times on the
drive home, “let us look, Erica, what do we have to lose,” I was exhausted by
the time we arrived back to Boulder.
He still had at least an hour to drive, plus a full night of processing
ahead of him, so I offered him a tea or coffee, but he politely declined. Andre then offered him some the
huckleberry vodka we picked up in Idaho, handmade in small batches. Of course. Vodka.
That kept him going for at least another hour, ensuring us a
constant stream of stories and tips for drying and preserving our harvest. In the end, we were sad to see him drive
off, but so happy to have spent a lovely day in the forest with my
teacher. Thanks Alex!
No comments:
Post a Comment