Obsessions part II (nobody dies)

Mushroom hunting was one of the things that fell by the wayside as a single woman.

My only wild mushroom acquisition at this time was the famous Caesar’s mushroom.   Shortly after the spectacular arrival of an unknown, foreign, single woman (me) in  my present village, a most obnoxious (married) man visiting his parents in the village offered to take me to where he knew these mushrooms grew.   At the time, newly single, I was practicing trying to suppress my innate “ick” responses to people and to be open to everyone (phases you go through), and accepted his invitation.   But I had my innate intuition that he was obnoxious confirmed when it became highly (even outstandingly) apparent that he was expecting rugged sex in the hills in return for this highly valuable information and a basketful of Caesars.  Caesar’s mushrooms, for which sex was not paid, are also best sautéed and then simmered in wine with a pinch of Spanish paprika for 20 to 30 minutes.  Final dash of cream optional.

 When I met SO*, he showed the typical urbanite’s enthusiasm for and ignorance of the countryside.  He was fired up by the idea of finding mushrooms, so I resumed my mushroom hunting activities in his company.  However, I now spent most of my time saying “put that down”.  It seemed impossible to persuade him that I knew what I was talking about, and that although the mushroom he had picked might smell nice, it was not necessarily a good idea to eat it.  Finally, I decided that experience is the best teacher, and didn’t stop him eating some field mushrooms which are mildly toxic (the yellow staining mushroom); it seemed to me a necessary step in his education.

A brief bout of gastroenteritis later he was undeterred, desperately seeking the prize which had so far evaded me, the Saint George mushroom.  These are very highly valued in Spain.  People pay a small fortune for them on the markets, and nobody who knows where they grow will let you in on their secret.  I’m convinced that this thing about collecting mushrooms early in the morning comes from the desire to collect your mushrooms before anybody else is up and about, in order to maintain your secret.

He used to come home with all sorts of indistinguishable greyish-brown mushrooms, convinced they were Saint George mushrooms because he had found them in the spring (this species only grows in the spring, around St. George’s day, hence the name – and the reason I know when St. George’s day is, the only saint’s day that I do know).  I would demur and duly present them to my neighbour Enrique for examination and final adjudication.  And he would shake his head and chuckle about the ignorance of city folk.

As I said, more than any other wild mushroom, nobody will tell you here where Saint George mushrooms are to be found.  They aren’t scattered around, they grow in circles and one circle might yield 3 or 4 kilos, but there won’t be another circle within a kilometre.   I remember once abusing my position as speaking examiner for Cambridge English exams, when it was still possible to formulate your own questions (these days, we use a rigid script so that everyone has the same exam all over the world).  My victim mentioned that he liked looking for mushrooms, and I then proceeded to question him closely on exactly where he found them.  He was in agony.  You don’t reveal this information, but a) it is hard to lie in an exam in a foreign language, and b) he thought I might pass him for giving me the information (Spain works like that).

Neither Enrique nor his wife likes mushrooms of any sort but, although as a farmer Enrique knew where to find his mushrooms, even he wouldn’t tell me where to find them.  Still, finally taking pity on SO and his fruitless efforts and perhaps worrying that one of these days he was going to be driving us to the emergency department at the not so local hospital, last year he knocked on the door with a plastic carrier bag full of Saint George mushrooms, 3 kilos at least.  SO was delighted, because this meant feasting big time, and I was delighted because this is the kind of thing that really teaches me how to identify a species.    I studied them carefully, new ones, older ones, battered ones, pristine ones, before cooking them.  So far, my best recipe for St. George mushrooms is to dice them, sauté them you know how, add a generous splash of white wine and cream,  a pinch of Spanish paprika, salt and a little pepper,  and then add them to pan fried chicken breast or steak strips.  Serve with rice or noodles and call it stroganoff.

I’m sure it was no coincidence that within a week or so, we had found two of our own St. George circles.  These are now our private mushroom grounds, and I’ve been checking them regularly recently.   Not so private, it turns out.  I’ll be lucky if the wild boar leave me as much as a half-chewed stem at one of the sites.  Hah!  I’ll sort them out.

               

* Just as I was thinking I’d like to get rid of this ridiculous way of referring to my beloved and give him a (false) name, I came upon my blog open on his computer, translated by Google.  I doubt he understood much, given what Google translations are like, but even so, I think I’ll keep SO for now, as Google translation is unlikely to know how to translate it and that might just protect him from the knowledge that I talk about him behind his back.

** After writing this, Chris reminded me of another mushroom that I “acquired”, way back at University, this one, which predated my interest in edible mushroom for culinary pleasure.   They grew on the playing fields, and every autumn would find crowds of people walking slowly over the fields, heads down, looking like extras in a zombie film.  My only recipe for these is don’t.  Or more specifically, don’t take a whole heap of them together in your late teens and then go out on the town, because it will end in tears and an expensive taxi ride home.