It is now October and the season is on us.
And if it’s autumn, then it must also be mushroom season and one of the culinary highlights of the year.
True, not everyone eats, let alone picks wild mushrooms.
The only time I ever did this in Britain, I was still young and visiting family friends who lived on a farm in the Welsh Marches. The mushrooms we found and ate were in a field. When we got back with our trophies, we asked what they were called. Silly question. They were Field Mushrooms, the Daddy of the cultivated champignon or button mushroom. I expect my parents were horrified to know what I’d done when I came home. At that time, in the sixties, this would have been the reaction of most people. And fair enough, field mushrooms are probably the riskiest variety to pick. But back then, the horror extended to pretty much anything that grew wild.
Now British people seem to have wised up. Some of them anyway, since it seems wild mushrooms are trending these days. And so is looking for them, rather than just buying them in a shop. There is even a word for it – ‘foraging’. OK, so this includes anything that you find growing wild and then stick down your throat – from dandelion leaves to raspberries. And for the less fastidious, I suppose, even roadkill. But the point is a good one. Mushroom-hunting has now gained a kind of respectability and so is described with a word that has positive connotations of resourcefulness and thrift.
Still, I expect this is still a minority sport in the UK. Even over here in the Swedish countryside, most folks tend to be cautious and limit themselves to the unmistakable – that is summer chanterelles – forest gold. This despite the fact that it’s possible, visually at least to confuse them with another species that appropriately enough goes by the name of ‘fool’s chanterelle’. Or fool’s gold, if you like. But don’t worry. There are limits to the extent of foolishness you can display. The mock-chanterelles are harmless. They are just indigestible and taste pretty awful.
So you can play safe, if you prefer. And that includes not only refusing to forage yourself, but also not trusting others to do it – especially Australian matriarchs with a grudge.
For even in cautious Sweden, there are a few cases of fungus poisoning each year, sometimes even fatalities (though as far as I know, these are accidental).
In fact, Sweden ranks rather low internationally, not only in the number of fatalities, but also in the enthusiasm for foraging.
As you might expect, there is a strong correlation between the popularity of the pastime and the number of fatalities. When I was living in the Soviet Union, wild mushrooms were a common supplement to the diet. Not just because more conventional forms of food were only sporadically available, but also because you didn’t have to queue for them and then be insulted by the shop assistant.
I guess there’s not the same urgent need for nutritional supplements in today’s Russia. But the tradition persists. And so, quite a few people die poisoned by wild fungus in this country – between 25 and 65 deaths per annum, according to whom you believe. Obviously, the number of participants has something to do with the statistic. But so, apparently, is the popularity of death-caps as a means of intentionally expediting your own exit from the planet. Along with drinking poor quality moonshine, death by fungus is one of the most favoured means of committing suicide in Muscovy. And can also be recommended to the highest echelons of Russian politics.
World champs in the auto-toxification stakes, however, have got to be the Chinese with 72 deaths per year. Though given the huge population of the country, this seems quite modest compared with the achievement of the runner-up. Russia, in case your attention had drifted.
The moral of the story? (Or morel, if you prefer.) Once again, and I can’t repeat this often enough, (which is lucky, otherwise this would be a pretty short blog), is never pick anything that looks vaguely like a button mushroom or portabello. And to play really safe, avoid anything with gills.
‘Gills?!’ you exclaim. ‘Are we talking about fish all of a sudden?’
Would I do that to you? No. But it’s obviously time for a little education in mycology.
Aka what is a mushroom? Or toadstool for the risk-averse.
Characteristically, a mushroom is a kind of fungus. Well, so is mould, so let’s be more specific.
Mushrooms most usually consist of a foot (the stalk bit) and a cap (the top bit). Sadly, this excludes the cauliflower fungus, which sometimes goes by the name of mushroom. (No real foot and no perceptible cap.) Technically, mushrooms should also have the aforementioned gills too. These are the lamellae or thin plates of tissue on the underside of the cap. If you’re still not sure, take a button mushroom out of the fridge, turn it over and inspect it. Commit it to memory.
This technical description, however, leaves out many of the most delicious edible varieties that in common parlance go by the M-name. Like morels, for example. These very odd-looking but very tasty fungus also lack the usual kind of cap, having instead something that looks like a penis in the last stages of desiccation. Sad to say, they’re one of those plants that suck up minerals out of the soil quite indiscriminately. All well and good if the minerals in question are vital to the metabolism. But arsenic ain’t, and caesium can make you glow in the dark. Still, the story goes that these potential toxins disappear if you prepare the morel in the correct way. Which is a relief, since they are lovely in a pasta sauce.
So are ceps, especially those that carry the Latin tag of boletus. In Swedish this group quite rightly go by the name of noble ceps, and they are for my money the best of the lot. They certainly look like mushrooms:-
So what’s the problem? Well, if you check on the underside, they lack gills. Instead they have a kind of spongy mass called pores. The very best of these is the Penny Bun, which these days is better known as the porcini mushroom. This is a little odd. Or rather a lot odd. The name is Italian for a start. It’s plural, to continue, even if it’s used in English to describe singular items. And thirdly, as noted, it’s not really a mushroom, but a cep. Who cares! It’s the King of the Woods for my money and this year we’ve had a bumper harvest of about 30 kilos. Yee-ha!
Weirdly enough, in Swedish this cep is named after a king. To wit, Karl Johan, also known in English as Charles XIV John for some reason. He started as a Marshal in Napoleon’s army. But impressed the Swedes so much that they asked him to be king since they’d run out of candidates for the post. He brought with him a fashion for French cooking, so was honoured by having the mushroom take his name. I’m not sure everyone would have been honoured by this gesture, but it seems he was. Before that it had borne the more humble name of stone cep.
In fact, there are lots of different varieties of ceps. Not all of them are so delicious. But nearly all of them are eatable. Only two of those found in Sweden are not, and even they are not poisonous. They just taste bad. Fire cep and gall cep, if you’re curious. At least that’s the literal translation from Swedish. Most other ceps tend to have an affinity for a specific type of tree. So you get names like Aspen Cep and Oak Cep in Swedish. This really helps when you’re trying to impress beginners who join you on a forage. If you’re not sure, just look at what tree the cep is next to, nod wisely and say ‘Pine Cep. Thought so.’
As you’ve probably read, there appears to be some scientific evidence for advanced symbiosis between mushrooms and trees, with some even claiming the mycelia or thread-like networks of certain species not only play a part in exchange of water and minerals (mushroom to tree) for photosynthesis (tree to mushroom), but also provide a kind of natural kind of fibre-optic cable for the dissemination of info throughout the forest. Some have dubbed this the ‘wood-wide web’. I’m not sure I believe that. But I’d like to.
Meanwhile back at the ranch, the standard definition of mushrooms also leaves out another major food group – the puffballs. Most of these have a recognisable cap and foot, but once again no gills and no pores either. The cap joins seamlessly with the foot. Catch them when they’re young and fleshy or they’ll explode in your face. This is how they spread their reproductive spores.
But even within that exception, there’s a further exception. The giant puffball, which looks more like a football, lacks any distinction at all between cap and foot. Amazingly enough, a mature giant can contain as many as 7×10 to the power of 12 spores and one day I must learn how to type mathematical exponents on the computer.
I hope by now you are beginning to share my fascination. And we haven’t even touched on the fact that mushrooms are unclassifiable in the traditional way, since they are neither animal nor vegetable. I like to think of them as an alien life-form that a generous spaceship let drop from its exhaust in passing.
What’s more we haven’t even got on to the most spectacularly poisonous varieties, as recommended by Australian psychopaths – the death caps or amanitas. Don’t get me wrong. Not all amanitas are poisonous. Even the most obvious specimen, the fly agaric, doesn’t have to be if you just use it for recreational purposes, as the berserker Vikings are reputed to have done.
But go for the death cap proper, or its close relative the destroying angel, then at least you couldn’t claim the marketing is misleading. The names give the clue. My favourite is the Latin term for one subspecies, amanita abrupta. All the really toxic amanitas cause liver and/or kidney failure, then total shut down of the usual body functions like muscle control and the nervous system. No doubt the CIA has already synthesised and taken out a patent on the toxin.
The biggest problem with the death caps, however, is that they are the kind of mushroom that is most easily confused with your portabello or field mushroom. So if you still insist on playing mycological Russian roulette, then at least make sure your ‘field mushrooms’ have dark gills. Or else, give them to someone you don’t like.
But as I say, notwithstanding the risks, mushrooms are one of the highlights of the autumn for me.
True, three of the delicacies, the inkcap (March onwards), the morel (ditto) and the summer chanterelle (start looking in May), appear first in spring.
But most of the rest come as the leaves begin to fall.
Not only the boletus. This is also the season for such goodies as milkcaps, ink caps, brittlecaps and wood urchins.
Unfortunately, most of these have their downsides.
Your ink caps are very jolly. They look like everyone’s mental picture of the classic toadstool, ranging from those that resemble skin excrescences on an old man’s head (the common ink cap) to others that look like furry soft toys (the shaggy inkcap). They’re supposed to be good food mushrooms. I have so far restrained myself, because some varieties have a pronounced Antabuse effect and I refuse to allow my drinking habits to be dictated by a variety of mould.
Milkcaps, the mushrooms that, when cut, ooze a liquid looking like milk (or even better blood), are delicious when fried in butter till they are almost crisp. Problem is that in our area (low, damp) they are perhaps the most readily infested with mosquito larva, which can make foraging for them more trouble than it’s worth.
One of the prettiest and most varied species is called in English the brittlegills. These are very dry and have an almost chalky consistency that causes them to dissolve into powder when you break them. That in itself is not an insurmountable problem. But that the comestible varieties are so similar to the more obnoxious-tasting or toxic varieties kind of puts me off. And believe me, I have tried.
Lastly, the wood urchin, also known rather splendidly as the hedgehog mushroom. In Sweden, it goes by the rather dull name of the prickly mushroom. Not that its prickles prick, but then neither could it ever pass itself off, even on a moonless night as a hedgehog. But under the cap, it is in possession of yet another alternative – neither gills nor spores, but soft and brittle little spines. These mushrooms are edible and cannot be easily confused with anything nasty in the woodshed. They’re meaty but a little bland. My recommendation is the same as for some of the less interesting ceps – whack them into a good curry and call it protein.
Whatever. All the little blighters brighten the dogdays of encroaching cloud and cold. Even when all hope of more appears to be out, along come the so-called winter chanterelles. These are much duller in colour than the summer counterparts. They have a more subtle appeal to the eye, but the umber and raw sienna tones do make them much more difficult to spot. Fortunately they tend to grow in large clusters, so if you find one there are bound to be more in the environs. In Sweden, they go by the name of autumn (or funnel) chanterelles. For even with their inbuilt antifreeze, they rarely survive the rigours of the Swedish winter. Besides, it’s pretty difficult to find anything under a few centimetres of snow. For me, however, they have a more appealing flavour than their golden relatives.
The problem is, of course, that wild mushrooms are so very seasonal. With the exception of button mushrooms/ champignons, shiitake and oyster mushrooms, they cannot be cultivated. I believe there are caves near Rome, where without any human intervention, porcini grow year round. But this is surely cheating. The rest of us just have to seize the day, mushroom-wise.
So what, I hear you cry, can I do to preserve the thrill and joy throughout the year?
Preserve the mushrooms, of course.
Most of the above can be frozen as long as you take the precaution of dry-sautéing them first to remove excess water. Pickling is also popular in some countries out east, while in Italy they tend to bathe porcini in vinegar and conserve them in oil. With us, drying is the preferred form. The boletus and winter chanterelle both gain in intensity of flavour by this method and will last for years in a sealed jar. When you want to eat them, simply rehydrate and remember to save the water. Then add both to your favourite (preferably cream-based) sauce or soup.
Multiple umami orgasms.
If all that doesn’t convert you to foraging, I hope at least it encourages you to get out in the woods in autumn. It’s almost worth getting wet to behold the beauty and variety of this fantastic organism.
At which point you might be tempted to switch the subject slightly from the taste buds to the visual faculty and ask me:
‘Well, Paul with all your vast experience of mycology and your unerring aesthetic instinct, which mushroom, in your mirror, is the fairest of them all’?
To which I‘d be obliged to reply:
‘Well, Brian, I’m glad you asked me that. It’s a difficult one, but I think I’d go for the Red Foot or Scarletina Boletus – known in Swedish as the Blood Cep.’
It has a deep-brown velvety cap, blood-orange spores, and a foot shading from apricot to peach with pink streaks. Mycological sunset. What’s not to like?
Judge for yourself:
Thanks to the following for the pix via wikipedia:
Beentree
Jean-Pol Grandmont
CC BY-SA
Onderwijsgek at nl.
Michael Palmer
Holger Krisp
Ron
DJ Kelly
CC BY-SA de.
Letters from Sweden 