A little frantic about things like books, the woods, music, plants and the seasons

Close your eyes and become a mountain.

Ask her what she craved, and she'd get a little frantic about things like books, the woods, music. Plants and the seasons. Also freedom. - Charles Frazier, Nightwoods

It all started, I reckon, with a cloth sack we spontaneously fashioned out of the old gray t-shirt Cory was wearing when we stumbled upon a clump of pale golden orange Chanterelle mushrooms glowing like sunset along the side of the road.

Summer, 2017. Cory and I walked along a dirt road that stretched like a dirty white ribbon ahead of us, carving a path through the middle of Bald Eagle State Forest, located smack dab in the middle of the big rectangle that is Pennsylvania.

He stopped short and pulled me aside to point out a cluster of what, had I seen them, would have mistaken for a summer flower blooming in the weeds bordering the old road. A lot of them. More than we could fit in the t-shirt sack. “These are a delicacy,” Cory, who once upon a time earned a degree in Recreation and Parks Management from Penn State, explained. “We could probably sell these to a chef at a restaurant for a pretty good chunk of change. We won’t. But we could.”

I was delighted. Expensive delicacies featured in the world’s finest restaurants just sitting right here along a dusty road in the Pennsylvania woods? Love it. Let’s take them home and cook them tonight!

We carefully plucked each one, using our fingernails as pincers to separate them from their stems, taking care to leave enough of a stem that they could quickly grow back, and nestled them in our t-shirt sack as delicately as if we were collecting eggs from our chickens.

I pressed my face to their soft, fleshy forms and inhaled. They smelled like a beautiful hippie goddess who has emerged from her hidden cabin in the woods where she spends her days gardening and canning fruits and vegetables. Layered and earthy, cool with a hint of fruit, like apricots.

Foraging is as old as the human race. Obviously, I was familiar with it in some capacity. At the very least, like everyone, I was well aware that there is food in the woods for picking. I just hadn’t given it a whole lot of thought other than ruminating on captivating passages from favorite childhood books like the Little House on the Prairie series that detailed Ma making jam from berries freshly picked by Mary and Laura.

For much of history, before organized agriculture, early humans depended on what they could find in their environment. They hunted and fished and foraged for berries, nuts, roots, and greens. Albeit an accidental, measly effort, I felt pleased to be continuing the human hunt for forest food that day.

As we walked back to our vehicle, Cory talked about other gourmet mushrooms that grow in our area. Fungi like the Black Trumpet, with a cap that looks like one of those antique Victor Victrola phonographs people used to crank to play records; Coral mushrooms that look exactly like the kind of thing you see growing on the ocean floor; Puffball mushrooms that feel and look like giant balls of tofu, and of course, Morels. Then there are plants like ramps (wild leeks), Fiddlehead ferns, and even dandelions that are tasty when boiled to eliminate the bitter taste and then sauteed with olive oil, garlic, and a sprinkle of salt and pepper. Dandelion pasta, anyone?

Eating plants that grow of their own accord appeals to my pioneer, prepper, food storage, apocalypse-is-imminent Mormon heritage. I was enchanted by the accidental discovery of the flowery, orange mushrooms and asked Cory what else he knew about foraging.

He warned that mushroom foraging is a tricky business - eating the wrong kind can mean illness and even death - so beginners, like us, definitely want to stick strictly with what they know. Mushroom discussion forums abound with tales of painful illness and even death, usually featuring the accidental ingestion of a deadly mushroom species, Amanita, also known as “Death Angel” or “Destroying Angel.”

Later. After stopping to fill our coffee cups with wineberries and raspberries glowing among the greenery like Christmas lights, the Chanterelle treasure trove safely in the back seat, Cory stopped the car in the middle of the country road we were slowly rolling over. Wordless and shirtless, he hopped out and began picking black-eyed Susans, orange lilies, and purple-blue chicory he would soon present to me with gentle eyes and a shy grin so I could fill the giant mason jar sitting atop the kitchen table he built me from old barn wood he also scavenged from the side of the road.

In the passenger seat, dirty bare feet resting on the dash, I watched him in the rear-view mirror as he loped through weeds and wildflowers, pausing periodically to thoughtfully add to his bouquet. I popped the berries into my mouth one at a time to make them last longer and thought strange things about them.