Morels

D called and came over so we could clear brush for where the woodshed needed to go, for fabricating and keeping dry the River Wrack Show. This is out back, near the back door, what everyone else calls the front of my house. Short order and we have a space, haul the brush over into the woods. Thinking we might use natural rafters, trees, we take a walk down the power easement, no small poplars straight enough, maybe in the hollow, but not on the ridgetop. Walking back I keep stopping, looking closely into the underbrush, yes, a morel, and not fifty feet from the house, we find forty small ones, not enough to feed a crowd, D takes half, two servings. I eat half of mine with a left-over pork chop (rubbed and pan fried loin chops for sandwiches earlier, D starved) fried lightly in butter. Oh God they are good. These are one of my favorite things. Found a patch on Cape Cod that supplied me with enough to dry plus all I could eat. A great dish is herring roe and morels, another is the omelet I'll be eating tomorrow morning, with morels and wilted shallots, swimming in butter. A cream soup, just chicken stock and morels, butter, salt and pepper, then blenderize, another small batch chopped into quarter inch pieces to float around and add a bite, some half-and-half, a Cream Of Mushroom soup that has nothing to do with Andy Warhol or a green bean casserole. Or, for that matter, the pink elephant. Did I mention there wasn't a pink elephant? Seems that was a figment of my imagination: was there an elephant, was it pink, did it hide behind the sofa. Pretty sure I saw it there. I was just bussing tables, no, wait, I was mopping the floor, I remember this, there was a kind of urgency, tempered with drunken stupor. What is finally said, two crows, talking off the record, establish time, as a framework, they caw, I assume the music guy is on top of this. Just plain forgot to Send last night. Got swept away into several mushroom cookbooks, first couldn't believe I owned several. I do intend to tempura fry a batch, maybe slit open with a touch of goat cheese inside, chills down my spine. At the museum very early to survey the damage and there is none. The Deputy obviously trying to keep the Janitor appeased. They even put the empty wine bottles in the cases I provided. I begin to sense order. End of the day we must sort through the left-over food and divide it up, as Julia requested (wonderful lady, Board Member who cooks for functions, good cook too, and at odds with the wine guy all week over spices, very funny ongoing thing that had some of us laughing out loud) and we get opened left-over wine. I bring home way too much food, but maybe the fox will like little turkey sandwiches. Shuffle tables and chairs to another gallery, forty Germans tomorrow, for boxed lunches and a tour, Sister City thing, I know nothing, just the number, forty. Get out the next show which we had stashed in the Board Room: county wide high schools, juried show. Interesting, D arranges things roughly, then Sara comes out to help and Sherrie arrives, the high school county art overseer person. Fun, musical artwork, everything is set below where it will hang, we'll install the show tomorrow, 51 pieces. Should have a couple of days for this, but hey, as long as we don't sit down, we'll be fine. Home, I unpack everything, sort by possible spoilage all the food, eat some questionable sushi (I figure wasabi kills anything bad) and drink an insipid white wine. Sounds worse than it was. I didn't have to cook and someone else was buying the booze. Still time to go out after dinner and see if I can find enough morels for Julia, and her husband Ralph, who almost wept at the memory of this particular wild mushroom. What I can give in return. Morels are like Kobe Beef or saffron, off the logical scale, you either know or not. The American Truffle. You don't need a pig or a dog for this, what you need is a very good Janitor. I rest my case. I find just enough before dark to make a mess, if I was cooking this meal it would be enough, it's scant, I grant you that, my position in this, as any kind of arbiter, slim, at best, but at least a taste of the past, and that should be enough, to see you through. Memory is often better left untapped. What you think you remember. Mocking bird, Whippoorwill, what were you thinking.
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