I am a terrible gardener. The time that it takes to plan and plant a garden and then nurture the young plants to maturity by fighting the very forces of evolution (face it, the fittest plants in any garden are the weeds) is time I would rather spend fishing. Don’t get me wrong; I am thrilled that agriculture has made finding something to eat a weekly market chore rather than an all-day, every day, pursuit. It’s just that the local Amish family that sets up a market stand along our road is so much better at it, that I am happy to exchange a few dollars for a bag of veggies on my way to or from my latest fishing outing. That said; there is something infinitely more satisfying in cutting out the middleman in the process of bringing food to the table. Perhaps that is one reason I like to hunt and gather.
I have been having the best Black Morel gathering season that I have ever experienced. I have done nothing to plant and nurture these mushrooms. My only accomplishment is that I managed to find them. Yet when I burst through the door with my picking bag bulging with hundreds of morels I feel a pride of accomplishment far beyond what my efforts should warrant. I feel like a male Australian Bower Bird strutting and presenting gifts to his mate as I hold the bag out to my wife. She coos appreciatively and calls me her great white morel hunter. Actually, I say, these are Morchella elata the Black Morel not Morchella deliciosa the White Morel. She stops cooing and grabs a knife from the counter. “Black, white or purple, they’re not going to clean themselves.” she says as she hands me the knife. Turns out it is difficult to strut and clean morels at the same time.
