When we lived in Wisconsin, one of the shelves in our basement root cellar bore a black blotch which no amount of scrubbing would remove.
Okay, I gave it only one shot, but the previous owners told me they’d tried, also. They had attempted to grow mushrooms from a kit and the stain was all that came of their efforts.
Mushrooms growing around the large old oak trees lining the sidewalks of Charlotte are a sign the trees may be dying, enough to put the city tree crews on alert.
That’s a summation of what I know about mushrooms. They grow where they want… thus, the tag on a basket of funny brown things in the supermarket produce department: “Morels – $24 lb.”
There are mushroom maniacs who seek their own, like Dawn Fine, who records her birding, ‘shrooming, and travel adventures on Dawn’s Bloggy Blog. Birding and mushroom gathering must be harmonious pastimes. Might as well look under a tree while you’re looking in it.
Those people probably know the difference between real morels, which (according to Wikipedia) are only mildly toxic if not cooked thoroughly, and false morels, which can cause serious gastronomical distress and loss of muscle coordination. That mental picture–really needing a bathroom but unable to get oneself there–is enough to put the quietus on any hunting-mushrooms-in-the-woods treks for me. I’ll get my poison ivy in the back yard, thank you.
I’m a toadstool umbrella aficionado, a hangover from the Raggedy Ann and Andy books in my childhood. I’d rather read about mushrooms than eat them.
I was especially intrigued by a photo of some carrot-like mushrooms on Jane Prater’s knitting blog recently, since we live in the same city. I sent the link to her request, “need gardening help,” to my Memphis master gardening guru friend, Dirtworm, who knows all about growing plants, but, it turned out, not much about growing carrot mushrooms. In fact, she sent me a photo she’d taken of some mushrooms growing at their river cabin in Arkansas. This one takes us from the realm of “strange” to “twilight zone weird.”
As Dirtworm points out, “… so ironic that this is the place we go to fish.”
What th’. . . ???
Hello, Dawn…? Anybody?