The Mushroom Basket

FFSC member Marilyn Diamond handed me a copy of this

story at the Fungus Fair. It is a lovely reminiscence of a childhood amongst ardent mushroom foragers. I hope you enjoy it!

Regards, Wendy

The basket handle had been rather haphazardly reinforced with string and wire. My mom saw me looking at it and with a smile announced that this was the basket my dad used when he went mushroom hunting. She asked if I would like it and I quickly jumped at the chance to have this memento, to remember him. 

Mushrooms, because of their abundance and excellent quality in the “old country” were and are a mainstay of Italian cooking. The rich mountain soil near my hometown of Stockton produced mushroom. Some say they are not as flavorful as those which grow in Italy, but certainly more than acceptable for those Italians who had immigrated to California. So they continued the tradition of mushroom hunting—both for the richness mushrooms added to their food and to the sport and fun of it! 

I was only an observer to this process, because mushroom hunting always took place in November and December, when I was in school. Because the growing conditions of the mushroom dictated exact timing, the seasoned “hunter” would know exactly how much rain, fallen over how many days, would cause these precious molds to grow. It was not unheard of for my father to wake up early in the morning and decide right then that this was the day to go “up to the hills” to go mushrooming. Not only were the perfect growing conditions absolutely essential, but also the location was also critical. Several variables played an important part in where mushrooms would grow in abundance—exposure to light, slope of the land, amount of compost in the soil—were all important to the critical eye of the mushroom hunter. There would be places that yielded a significant mushroom harvest, but often there was much secrecy about the exact location. I can remember my father and uncles discussing their good luck on various mushrooming expeditions, but exact “spots” were rarely revealed. There was a friendly teasing and rivalry about who could find the biggest stash, and one’s worth as a man was somewhat measured by the quantity he could produce! Despite this competition, everyone in the family was of course very generous about sharing mushrooms, should someone run out. 

The part I did play was in preparing the mushrooms for drying. First the mushrooms had to be cleaned by hand. Each mushroom was held in one hand, while the other gently but thoroughly removed all the slimy surface dirt from each crevice and plane. The cleaning rag, which soon became heavy with moist dirt, gave off the heady odor of locker rooms. This process seemed to take hours, as the mushrooms were transferred from the dirty pile to the clean one. Next, old window screens were placed on sawhorses. My mom expertly sliced the mushrooms into cross-sections and then they were placed on screens to dry. After what seemed like weeks, but was only probably days, the dried delicacies were placed in tall tins, with bay leaves and dried chili peppers as a fumigant, to be stored until needed. 

While mushroom hunting was usually, but not always a man’s domain, the women were not to be outdone with their skilled preparation of this rich and delicious “ambrosia,” which found its way into sauces, or scallopine and when fresh into frittate or antipasti. We took for granted the spectacular flavor combinations the “lowly fungus” provided, because year in and year out, our food was seasoned with this flavorful garnish. It wasn’t until I began cooking for my own family, that I realized how the canned variety paled in comparison. As my dad got older, he made fewer mushroom hunting trips, so I was relegated to buying canned mushrooms for less special meals, and to hoarding the less abundant dried delicacies that came my way for “dining!” 

The day I brought my dad’s basket home, I had a hard time deciding where to put it. I knew it was too bulky to be displayed on a wall or on a table. But then one day after about a year, I decided on the perfect spot to display it - the hearth of our family room fireplace. It still has it’s reinforced rope and wire handle, just as my father last left it. At Christmas time it holds Poinsettias, at Easter ferns, and in the summer miniature Calla Lilies. But most of all my Dad’s basket holds sensory memories of a time gone by. I can feel the crisp autumn wind on my cheeks and nose reminiscent of mushroom hunting time. I can smell the peat must emanating from the mushrooms piled high ready to be cleaned. I hear the banter as elders teasingly refuse to share the exact coordinates of their special mushroom hiding “places”. I see several generations congregated together in the cold basement huddled working together to process the mushrooms. I can savor those marvelous delicacies, the well-earned reward for hours of tedious, dedicated work. Certainly, the goal of mushroom hunters was the end product: the wonderful, concentrated flavor a dried mushroom brings. Beyond that, the basket reminds of the constancy and the anchoring that the mushroom hunting experience brought to my early years and helped define who I was and am. How lucky I am to have a visual reminder of a very important part of my Italian culture; how glad that I realized it should be displayed in plain sight.