So this entry (and the next) must cast down the internet idols of immediacy, presence, and second-by-second info-flow. That’s right, we’re talking memoir mode here. Although, truth be told, and summing up thousands of pages of Proust, food often tastes better in memory. (Which has nothing to do with this entry, since these mushrooms blew off socks.) So here goes, after too many months of doing only what I am paid to do, the entry we have all been waiting for: the return of PhilaPhorage.  

    It was our usual long weekend at Grandmother H.’s place in Virginia: three days, graced by clear, breezy, perfect fall weather. P. triumphantly caught her first fish—too small to eat, but still a moment of pure joy. As blog readers will remember, in 2008 we scored russala and slippery jack mushrooms, but this year there was nothing of the sort in sight. I was ready to give up: it seemed as though we were a little too late in the season, even if the frosts hadn’t arrived yet. 

    But on the morning of the last day, out wandering on the hillside on the far side of the pond, I found a single, beautiful specimen of hen-of-the-woods—the outsized mushroom that is cultivated as Maitake. It’s infinitely more exciting in the wild. I’d never seen one before, but I’d spent enough hours curled up with mushroom lit that I knew what I was seeing: a generously scaled, light-brown clump of fungi—sort of oyster mushroom gone gargantuan—nestled near the base of an oak tree. I brought it back up to the house, and then spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the woods over there, and shortly before we had to pack it in I stumbled upon a huge bed of them up over the crest of the hill, so much fungus that I had to use my sweater as a sling to get them all out down the hill. As it turned out, the first hen discovered was a bit past its prime, so we didn’t even eat it. I left one huge item with Uncle A. The rest we hauled home in the trunk of the car. Thankfully, no weigh stations were open.

     Arriving late at home, we shoved them into the fridge and went to bed, then off to work in the morning. A few days later, both in order to make room in the fridge for something besides mushrooms, and because the mushroom hunger was upon us, I figured it was time to cook them all in one huge sauté event. 

    Basically, I gave them the standard treatment. First: diced sweet yellow onions. While those were sweating I carved up the mushrooms. You’d be surprised at the number of little creepy-crawlies that were still in there, after two hundred miles in the trunk of a ’96 Audi and three days in the frigo. At least four centipedes and five or six beetles made a run for it while I was dissecting the fungi. D. caught most of them and either released them into the wild or set them loose in her terrarium. She also helped rinsing the mushrooms, which are so sturdy that there is no need to worry about immersing them in water (unlike, say, chantrelles or shitakes, that absorb water like sponges).

    I should make a slight aside here to mention that the pan shown in these pics is a brand new Calphalon non-stick and a testament to that manufacturer’s commitment to its customers. Toward the end of last spring, I noticed that my favorite pan, in which I would braise, sauté and bake everything from chickens to osso bucco, was releasing flakes of nonstick coating into our food. Click, click with the camera, email to Calphalon, sent the old pan in, and by the time we were back in the States this fall I had a new pan waiting for me. Go, Calphalon!

    The mushrooms had to cook a good, long time before they got tender, and even then they retained a bit of crunch. I kept the treatment simple: salt to help release liquid, simmer on low-medium for thirty minutes, then sauce up with a chunk of frozen chicken stock, direct from freezer to pan, some black pepper and a shot of soy sauce for depth. That evening, we served them simply with pasta and parmesan. But the lion’s share went into the freezer, and we derived at least six meals from them: with chicken, omelets, steak, more pasta, you name it. 

    Uncle A. didn’t eat his haul until he had shown it to a mushroom-expert friend and waited to see if we dropped dead after eating ours. O ye of little faith! One more beauty part: Hen-of-the-Woods tends to return in the same spots, year after year…

    Three days later, I found a centipede curled up in the crisper drawer. When it warmed up, it crawled off into the wild.