One Sunday a shriek from my wife suggested that assistance in the garden would be appreciated. I didn’t run exactly, because this was not, on the spectrum of shrieks, a piercing one such as might indicate a mouse under the sink. Nor did it have the blood-curdling quality that suggested a copperhead in the liriope. This was more your shriek of amusement, suggesting there might be something entertaining rather than threatening, to see.
Coyly, she pointed to a patch of venca from which protruded the rudest, most phallic-looking mushroom either of us had ever seen. Eight inches of spongy, pale pink stalk crowned with a smooth, grayish cap exuding a sticky, foul-smelling substance was bobbing passionately about in the breeze. A bit of Internet research revealed that what had reared its head was Phallus Ravenelli, a member of the aptly named Stinkhorn family of mushrooms, common enough in lawns and cultivated beds in warmer parts of the country, where they have presumably been providing gardeners with a giggle since time immemorial. They clearly amused the botanist that named them since the scientific name for the family is Phallaceae, which is nice and clear. The mycologists will be rolling their eyes at this point, but I challenge anyone to stumble across one of these things for the first time and not stifle a smirk. So smirk we did—from a distance—unlike the flies perched all over the cap (or gleba) of the thing. Apparently the flies, attracted by the revolting carrion smell that a stinkhorn emits, help to disperse its spores. Which, depending on your point of view, either argues in favor of Darwin’s theory of natural selection or that God possesses a jaunty sense of humor.
Either way, the appearance of such a weirdly magnificent organism leaves you in awe of life’s ability to mold itself (see what I did there?) to every opportunity. For Ashley, it also provided a moment’s levity amid what is otherwise shaping up to be a challenging summer in the garden. The rainy spring and early summer have encouraged all sorts of fungi and water molds to the general detriment of her roses, camellias, and other ornamentals. She spends a lot of time fending off outbreaks of mildews, wilts, and leaf spots and, like every keen home gardener, wins some battles while losing others. But beyond the appearance of tumescent toadstools, the wet weather brings a rarer consolation prize—a bumper crop of chanterelle mushrooms.
In recent weeks after any significant rain, the woods in the Felicianas have erupted with sprays of golden-orange chanterelles, which materialize as if by magic in damp forest glades then just as quickly are gone a few days later. Chanterelles are delicate, ephemeral, firm-textured mushrooms with the fragrance of apricots and a fruity-meets-spicy flavor that earns them the nickname “Queens of the Forest.” They are also impossible to cultivate, which accounts not only for the high price they command in specialty grocery stores but also for the thrill that discovering a patch inspires among dedicated foragers.
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The good news is that, from May through September, chanterelles are fairly easy to find in this part of the world. Irregularly sized, trumpet-shaped—looking more like a hibiscus flower than a mushroom—newly emerged chanterelles are often the brightest things on the forest floor on a gloomy post-rainstorm morning, when they can seem almost to glow with an inner light. Important identification points: Chanterelles lack clearly defined gills on the underside of the cap—a feature that distinguishes them from toxic jack ‘o lanterns, which have obvious, well-developed gills that you could scrape away from the cap if you chose to. Chanterelles generally grow separately from one another, rather than together in a clump as jack ‘o lanterns will do. Another good test: when you cut a chanterelle through the stem, the interior of the stem will be creamy white. The stem of a jack ‘o lantern will be orange all the way through.
All that said, here is my disclaimer: Don’t start harvesting and devouring orange mushrooms based on my inexpert description because I don’t know much, and if you are still reading at this stage I am fond of you and don’t want you to die. And despite the many web pages offering tips for chanterelle identification, if you’re interested in harvesting any kind of wild mushrooms for the table, I would advise you to find a local expert or reach out to the Gulf Coast or New Orleans Mycological Societies, to see about joining a local foraging trip in your area. It’ll save you the two days of waiting to die after eating your first solo-gathered chanterelles, which is what I did.
But now I’m familiar, there’re few things more satisfying than working these fruity, fragrant, hand-gathered marvels into the next soup, sauce, or simple, butter-sautéed jumble on toast. There are scores of varieties of mushrooms sprouting in the Louisiana woods. Many are edible, some are toxic; all are fascinating. As I begin to learn the difference I am struck by an observation that legendary Louisiana chef, restaurateur, and widely acknowledged “Queen of Creole Cuisine,” Leah Chase, made during her interview with food editor Lucie for this issue. Of growing up in a small town she said, “Comin’ up in a small town—what you call an old country town—you know what you can pick, you know what you can touch, you know what you can eat, you know what you can’t eat. So you come up with things, and today you find out they’re delicacies.”
For as long as there are chanterelles sprouting under oaks ‘round here, that’s going to be my motto. Now, I wonder what a morel looks like …
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