French Mushroom Memories

It's been a cool, rainy summer in Michigan and last night, once again, the sound of rain on the cabin roof was gentle and persistent. Campers all over Michigan may have turned over in their sleeping bags and sighed, but I smiled because I knew that in the dark of night, chanterelles were bursting forth in the nearby aspen, conifer and oak forests.

Chanterelles, or cantharellus cibarius, are fragrant golden mushrooms, which are an epicurean delicacy around the world. I first saw them in the oak forests near St. Marsal, a small village in the Pyrenees Mountains in France, where I went mushroom hunting with my friend Simone.

As we headed uphill out of the village on that first forage, we crossed paths with a fellow hunter and I commented on the huge number of mushrooms he had found. I didn't need Simone to tell me, as she later did, that I had committed a faux pas. The man stared past me and, despite the obviously overflowing basket, shrugged his shoulders, pursed his lips and with a seeming lack of interest replied: "quelques-uns, pas beaucoup," meaning a few, not many.

As the days wore on, I developed, under the tutelage of Simone, the tunnel vision that is a must for any good mushroom hunter. Together we moved silently through the forest finding bagfuls of chanterelles .

On the last day of my stay, Simone was busy and, with a couple of hours before lunch, I decided to make my first solo forage. There had been lots of rain so I had high hopes.

Walking with a large mushroom bag over my arm, I passed through the town square. The usual group of old people were gathered there and one of them said: "Looks like the American is going mushrooming." "Do Americans know anything about mushrooms," asked another. Everyone turned and looked at me questioningly. I tried to look confident, but my spirits flagged. All of a sudden, I carried the burden of an entire nation on my shoulders.

Trying to show some of that famous American can-do attitude, I waved and marched determinedly out of the village. An hour and a half later, soaking wet and mud-splattered, I was without a single chanterelle. It was clear that someone had been there before me. Soon I would have to head back to the village, past the stares and knowing smiles of the old folks.

I was at the bottom of a steep-sided ravine with a level outcropping at the top that looked like a perfect place for chanterelles. It was slippery going, but finally I made it to the top. I got a good footing, grabbed the edge of the ledge and lifted myself up. As my eyes came level with the flat ground, I gasped. Spread before me were dozens and dozens and dozens of perfect golden chanterelles, enough to fill my bag to the top.

I walked triumphantly back into the village and across the town square, where the group of old people watched me, but, according to tradition, said nothing. My husband had come out to meet me. As if on cue, he said (in French), "Wow, you found a lot of mushrooms." I looked not at him, but at the group, shrugged my shoulders, pursed my lips, shifted my bag to my other arm and with a seeming lack of interest replied: "quelques-uns, pas beaucoup."

I've found thousands of mushrooms since that day, but I can honestly say that none have tasted as sweet.

Even if you are not up for mushroom hunting, chanterelles are often for sale in speciality food stores and good supermarkets. If you see them, buy them and try this simple, delicious pasta sauce. Click here for the recipe.

To see photos of St. Marsal, my most recent mushroom finds and other woodland discoveries, click here.

Bon appetit,

Geraldine

Photos by Geraldine Calisti Kaylor

Michigan
France

A Paris Love Story Leads Us To Umbria

Spello, a medieval town not far from Assisi, sits resplendent on its Umbrian hill. It's not a famous travel destination, but it is one of those Italian towns that makes me want to buy a small stone house on a terraced hillside. There I'll sit on my shaded arbor, looking out over my thriving olive trees and grape vines. Neighbors will stop by to talk and I'll open a bottle of my award-winning wine. Maybe they'll stay for dinner - something simple - a soup made with locally-grown farro and fresh vegetables, a salad dressed with my own pungent olive oil and for dessert some pecorino cheese from the neighbor down the hill.

The town of Spello is beautiful, but it's possible that this urge to stay forever was enhanced by the sheer relief of having survived the four hours of challenging driving on the various Italian roads and autoroutes that lead from Pisa to Spello. Why we were in Spello is another story and goes back more than 20 years to a clear October evening.

We were in Paris that year and my younger sister came to visit for a month. Early in her stay, she and our then 13-year-old son decided to go out for dinner. I suggested a small Italian restaurant nearby. As fate would have it, in the kitchen was a young Italian chef. Their eyes met and well, you know the rest... except that he only spoke Italian and French and she only spoke English.

She came home from dinner that night, told me she had a date at midnight and needed to take our son along as translator. "No," I said. "He's a great guy, Mom. He's going to be my uncle!" "Don't be ridiculous," I said to my son. "This guy is not going to be your uncle."

So here we were, 23 years later, in Spello visiting my sister, my 21-year-old niece and my son's Italian uncle, who has family in Spello and nearby Spoleto. He is a great guy and boy, can he cook. It turns out his whole family can cook.

In between meals - pasta with truffles, gnocchi with fresh tomato sauce, risotto with porcini mushrooms, wild boar stew, homemade prosciutto, and in a nod to Paris, crepes with chocolate sauce - we even managed to see a bit of the wonderful art and architecture of Spello. With the family eating schedule, we'll need at least a couple of more visits to see the whole town. I can hardly wait until next year.

To see photos of Spello, click here.

For my brother-in-law's gnocchi recipe, click here.

Ciao,

Geraldine