TRUE CHANTERELLES

… finding a good patch of morel mushrooms…a trace of the glad hearts of hungry earlier gatherers… — Jim Harrison

After an unseasonable rain,
at the end of the road, I found 
a stand of blue chanterelles
in the detritus of a pine stump.
I mourned the loss of a childhood tree,
but admired the gift it gave back.
They were more amethyst than black,
like fluted horns, or flamenco dancers.
Careful not to bruise them, I cut them 
with a silver knife, jealously guarding
their dark secrets, reveling in their muskiness–
like their dark truffled cousins, but with less bite.
A friend was up from LA visiting for her birthday 
so I opened the last hoarded jar of mushrooms
preserved in sweet clarified butter. Flecked 
in butterfly pasta, they were divine sparks
inspired by the salt tang of the sea
with glistening mauve shallots sautéed
& deglazed with a splash of old Madeira.
As she droned on about her poetry career, 
she picked out the offending fungus,
lined them up on the lip of the plate
in battalions, my rare woodland crop.
Perhaps they weren't true chanterelles,
but perse-hued pig's ears.

10/30/2013

Take two
TRUE CHANTERELLES

… finding a good patch of morel mushrooms…
a trace of the glad hearts of hungry earlier gatherers…
                — Jim Harrison

After an unseasonable rain,
at the end of the road, I found
a stand of blue chanterelles
that most singular of species,
the Polyozellus multiplex,
in the detritus of a pine stump.
I mourned the loss of my childhood tree,
but admired the gift it gave back.
They were more amethyst than black,
like frosted horns, or flamenco dancers
than leathern earthfans. The hymenium,
a delicate lace edging the violet skirts.
Careful not to bruise their glaucous bloom,
I sliced them with a silver knife, jealously guarded
their dark secrets, reveled in their muskiness–
so like their dark-truffled cousins, but with less bite.
A friend from LA was visiting. For her birthday
I opened the last hoarded jar of mushrooms
preserved in sweet clarified butter. Flecked
in butterfly pasta, they were divine sparks
inspired by the salt tang of the sea,
punctuated with glistening mauve shallots, 
sautéed and deglazed with a splash of old Madeira
As she droned on about her poetry career,
she picked out the offending fungus,
lined them up on the lip of the plate
in battalions, my rare woodland crop
then scraped them into the compost heap.
The chardonnay glass beaded and wept.
Perhaps she thought they weren't true 
chanterelles, but Gomphus clavatus, 
perse-hued pig's ears, imposters 
posing in the pasta.

rev. 8/1/18
forthcoming in a mycology journal

• True Chanterelles finally published 2020
• Also published in Medicine for Minds and Hearts, Fungi Press, 2023
• 

Debating whether to use full Harrison quote, and should I capitalize Pig's Ears? Then I'd have to do all the fungi, and it might look pretentious. 
There is something inscrutably satisfying about finding a good patch of morel mushrooms that travels far beyond their excellent flavor, perhaps a trace of the glad hearts of hungry earlier gatherers… — Jim Harrison

Since I lose the original draft because of cyber revisioining, I'm going to try & remember to post it under the poems. 

This was the original note to Jim Carmin:

I once found a stand of black chantrelles at the end of the old road where I grew up in Forest Kinolls. We ate them carefully prepared, guarding them jealously, reveling in their rarity. They were like truffles. I wanted to do something special for my friend who was visiting me in Forestville. It was her birthday. I used the last chantrelles preserved in clarified butter, in butterfly pasta. The mushrooms were a divine spark seasoned with salt, butter, and madeira. I was stunned, as she talked, she picked them all out, one by one, my precious cargo—as if they were insects.