Morels...

Each January-February, Pete steels himself for the premature morel banter he'll overhear me ranting about over the phone, "I know! The snow is deeper this year. What do you think this means for our estimated morel time of arrival (e.m.t.a)?"
Into March, the discussions will get more excited, "I know...I saw that online too. Texas is already having sightings. Have you seen any lilacs yet? Hmmm...what kind of rain have you been getting...?"
Forget April. It's a near-daily ritual of talking and now texting updates on morels. What we think about them, where we may find them, our hunting strategies, possible recipes, whatever.
May brings action to the talk. We make an annual pilgrimage back to IL to go to some choice locations where we've found morels in the past. As Pete will attest, the weekend is completely focused on mushrooms. I even dream about them.
Where did this fixation begin...?
Gram's husband Louie successfully foraged for mushrooms for years with his brothers. Gram will tell that he had an uncanny way of locating possible spots and identifying them. She tells of years of cleaning and cooking the mushrooms and how she missed them after he passed. A few years ago, my mom, sister and I got the idea that we could find them, after all, we had the genes, right? Erin and mom scouted some prime locations and quickly enjoyed some big hauls over the years. I tagged along, finding some along the way.
The best part of the search, certainly is the spoils. Presenting the spoils to Gram, that is. We trudge in with our muddy shoes and bedraggled selves to show her what we've found. She appraises them carefully, and in a congratulatory tone, usually suggests they'd be great either deep-fried, or with a steak later that night. Whatever the recipe, when she eats them again for the first time that year, she'll close her eyes and savor the woodsy memory.