– Time For A Tiara: Column by Ginna Young – - Barbed wire and mushrooms just go together

– Time For A Tiara: Column by Ginna Young –

As the weather is getting warmer – then colder – then warmer again – I’m starting to get the itch I do every year. No, not spring allergies, although, those irritations are starting, too. What I’m talking about, is hunting morel mushrooms.

When Dad was alive and well, we always went hunting the delicacy, either on land that we had arranged permission to do so or randomly stopping along the roadside when we saw potential signs. Pretty sure, sometimes, we were trespassing, but that didn’t matter to Dad.

We were on the hunt. Conditions had to be just right and there was always the chance that some other avid mushroom hunter had already claimed the bounty. You can’t wait too long in the spring or the morels will be all dried up, and if it’s not hot enough or you don’t get enough rain, you’re not going to find anything.

You want to make sure to look around dead elm trees or old apple trees, and blackberry brambles. Don’t be afraid to get down and really look for them, they like to hide. Of course, the best clue, is following your nose.

The best time to find them, is before the trillium turn pink; if the flowers have already turned pinkish/purple, the season is over. Oh and beware of the “false” morels. Those are the ones who don’t have that perfect cone shape at the top, but are kind of round and flat, and/or gray.

To harvest the mushrooms, pinch them off at the very base, leaving the roots intact, so spores can reproduce more of the tasty morsels. We always stashed them in plastic or paper bags until we got home, which was OK, because they didn’t stick around long enough to dry out or draw moisture.

Once we got home, we’d cut them into pieces, soak them in salt water for a bit, then fry them in Crisco shortening, until they were crispy and golden on the outside, but still chewy on the inside. Serve them with pork and beans, and bread and butter, and you’re looking at the best meal you’ll ever have!

When I was born, Dad was really hoping I wouldn’t be a fan of morels, because we never had enough to satisfy us, no matter how many we found and one more person who loved them, was not desired. Much to Dad’s chagrin, I went head over heels for them.

I became an avid hunter, much better than Dad at finding them. He always attributed that to the fact that I could smell better than he could. He said that’s why he took Mom and me along.

Personally, I think it was so we could help him over the barbed wire fences.

Ah, barbed wire. My old nemesis. Many a pair of pants did get torn by you, not to mention snags in my shirts.

See, Dad, while yelling, “Hold it down, will ya,” would gingerly climb over a section of barbed wire fence, while Mom and I held down the strung line on either side of him. He usually made it over without much fuss.

I wish I could say the same. Once Dad was over, he went galloping off to begin his hunt, leaving the two of us to try to scramble through or over said fence on our own. Mom usually went through the wire, but being bulkier and much taller, I had to take the over-the-fence route.

Now, when two people are holding down the wire, it’s a breeze to get over. Not so with just one person.

Still, we always made it, with a minimum of cuts, which is good, because barbed wire leaves nasty scars. In fact, I still have some jagged scars on the front of my right ankle, that I received when hiking in the woods back of our house.

The barbed wire was half buried in the ground and I was unaware it was there. Some previous owners had apparently strung it some time ago, maybe to keep stock in – or out. Whatever the reason, I tripped over it and went flying, but not before the wire caught my ankle, and ripped through my pant leg and sock, to leave what would become permanent scars.

Unfortunately, once Dad was gone, we lost our access to morel hunting land, but I still long to go and can just taste that oh so delicious dish. I’d even face some barbed wire to do it.

A number of years ago, I got a tattoo around my left ankle of barbed wire, with a cross and a rose that a dear girl drew just for me. That is a very cool-looking piece.

The scar on the other ankle, I got the hard way and is not quite so cool. But, it makes for a good story of how I used to be a fearsome hunter... of mushrooms.