Spring Morels: A Walk in the Woods

Spring in these hills means one thing: the woods start calling, and we answer with a basket on our arm and our eyes pointed down. Morel season is short — a few sweet weeks between the dogwoods blooming and the heat settling in — and folks around here guard their spots like family recipes. Which, I suppose, is exactly what they are.

When to go

The old-timers say go when the oak leaves are the size of a squirrel's ear, and the old-timers are right more often than the weather app. Ground temps in the mid-50s, a good rain followed by a warm spell — that's the window. Around here that's usually mid-April into May. After a rain, give it two or three warm days, then go look. And look twice: morels are the masters of hiding in plain sight, sitting there like a crumpled paper bag somebody dropped and left to the woods.

Where to look

Every hunter has their theories. Mine, honed over a good many springs with more empty baskets than full ones:

• South-facing slopes first. They warm earliest, so the season starts there and works its way around the hill.
• Dead and dying elms. The classic spot. A downed elm with bark still hanging on is worth checking for years after it falls.
• Old apple orchards. Abandoned ones especially. There's something about that ground.
• Moist low spots near creeks. But keep your eyes up on the way in — I've found more standing on a rotten log staring at my boots than I can count.

How to pick

Pinch or cut the stem above the ground and carry them in a mesh bag or an open basket — the spores shake out as you walk, and you're seeding next year's patch without lifting a finger. Never pull them up by the roots. And know your mushroom: a true morel is completely hollow from the tip of the cap to the bottom of the stem. If it's not hollow, it's not coming home with me. There are false morels in these woods, and the woods don't hand out second chances.

"Take only what you need, leave the woods better than you found it, and never — never — tell exactly where."

That night

Morels don't keep, which is the best argument for eating them the same day. We rinse them quick, halve them long-ways, soak them in salted buttermilk for a spell, then dredge in flour and cornmeal with plenty of black pepper. Into a heavy skillet with butter and a little bacon grease, until they're gold and crackly at the edges.

We eat them standing at the counter, straight out of the cast iron, burning our fingers and not minding. That first bite tastes like the woods decided to be kind to you. It tastes like spring, earned the slow way.

If you've got a spot you're willing to speak vaguely about, or a way you cook yours that would start a friendly argument at my supper table, tell me in the comments. And if you're new to this — go slow, learn from someone who knows, and welcome to the finest treasure hunt there is.