The “Morel” of the Story

I love morel mushrooms.

Dipped in egg and crushed saltines then fried in butter – they are the epitome of spring cuisine.

But they are elusive.

The weather has to be just right.

The soil has to be just right.

And you have to be at the right place at the right time.

For several years now my love of mushrooms has been thwarted by my extreme allergy to poison ivy.  There was no way I could go tramping through the forests hunting for mushrooms like I did when I was younger.

The only morels we’ve had were the few accidentally discovered by a neighbor out checking cows.

But not this year!

This year the weather was just right.

The soil was just right.

And we happened to be in the right place at the right time. Well – at least Buddy was. He was out helping Jan move pigs and walked right into a patch.

Boom! More mushrooms then we had seen in years!

He carried them in like gold. My hero.

Each one was fried with extreme care. I wish I could say that we ate them slowly and savored each bite, but the truth is – we inhaled them as if we hadn’t eaten a morel in years.

Which in fact – we hadn’t.

What a feast!