The last couple of years have been deficient of morels. Oh, I've found a few but I certainly haven't needed a bag to carry them home in. I start looking about April 10 but I have found nothing ... until yesterday.
It's a beauty, though: fresh, large, perfectly formed.
I brought it home and washed it and placed in a container in the refrigerator. If we only had one, I wasn't going to waste it with breading (it would disappear in the pan) but cut it into small pieces and added it to our usual Wednesday morning scrambled egg breakfast.
The once-a-week eggs are a treat in themselves but with the addition of even this one morel, they're a breakfast to remember.
Cutting a morel longitudinally will show it's hollow nature and confirm the identification (I've hunted them so many years I have no fear; a morel is quite distinctive).
I always make our scrambled eggs with five eggs (two and a half for each of us isn't excessive) and I added the pieces of mushroom while I heated the pan. The eggs take on a different scent with the addition of the morel: earthy, even sensual.
I called Tom at 7:30 AM and he came down a few minutes later and we enjoyed our special breakfast.
I remember my grandfather collecting morels by the bushel-basketful in Bear Lake, Michigan. Each of those put mine to shame, They'd bring extras home, too. Grandma would wash them and somehow prepare them for the 450 mile trip home. We'd get together and have a repast fit for a king.
That was later in the spring, of course. Maybe May 10. Eventually he got too old to hunt but Mom and I would find some locally every spring. Now it's up to me.
I think of that one this way: One isn't much but one is one better than none.
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