Blech – I hate mushrooms – this was my mantra as a child and became a deep and integral part of my very essence. Hated mushrooms, hate mushrooms, and always will hate mushrooms. Don’t get me wrong; I completely appreciated the beauty of their biology, amazing diversity, lovely design features, and then there were those magic ones. I even had a signet ring engraved with a mushroom; but to eat, o no – blech! Stuck in my mind were those little bits in Campbell’s mushroom soup that squeaked when you bit them or the equally distasteful button mushrooms my mother cooked up with shrimp that repelled me. No – I would never eat mushrooms and that was something I could take to the bank or win a sure bet on. It was a truth I could lean on, a sure thing in an unsure world, a bastion of my identity that I knew wouldn’t change like my fickle beliefs and emotions – until I met a Chanterelle.

Oregon is great mushroom territory. Every fall there is a story in the news about an Asian family poisoned by toxic mushrooms they had mistaken for some beloved friendly mushroom they were used to back home. Our friends invited us to go gathering Chanterelles which they described as the most heavenly of mushrooms, the holy grail of mushroom lovers, and as rare as they are delicious. Collecting grounds are guarded in great secrecy and only trusted souls are initiated in order to prevent over collection. They joked about blindfolding us but deemed us worthy of our word. Duly sworn in, we made our way to the always moist and dense Pacific Northwest woods on a special mountain side. I certainly wasn’t intrigued by the idea of eating these mushrooms but I was never one to turn down the opportunity to wander in the woods. I rather thought I was doing them a favor by being a helper in finding their treasure trove.

Having arrived, we were instructed briefly in the preferred habitat of a chanterelle and allowed to follow our companions about as they found a few and pointed out some nasties that were not Chanterelles. Then we were shooed off to wander on our own; apparently this hunting was not a team sport and they undoubtedly had their favored spots they were not willing to share. Wander I did and not a mushroom did I see. Gripped with the old performance anxiety telling me I would not be able to accomplish this task; that what always seemed in plain view to others just did not reveal itself to me, I blinded myself. Finally, deciding it didn’t matter since I didn’t like mushrooms anyway, I just wandered about with non-looking soft eyes and very soon after a Chanterelle popped up in its perfect fluted orange glory.  And close by, as is the way of mushrooms, there were quite a few more. I began to get a feeling for where one of these delicate delights liked to live and began finding quite a few until I started trying too hard and they seemed to disappear. Then I would begin to think “la dee da, it doesn’t matter if I find any Chanterelles, I’m just out for a turn about the forest,” and there they would be. When I got at all frantic or desirous of finding more, they disappeared. I started to be able to gently feel with my body for a place that felt like where a Chanterelle would like to live and there they were. When I sought with my eyes, I couldn’t see them.

The whole experience of the woods’ heavy wetness and deep forest floor litter, the sounds of my companions traipsing through the woods snapping twigs and occasionally meeting up and speaking in hushed voices, the alert calls of the bird’s signaling our progress, the heavy smell of organic processes is etched into my being to this very day despite it being over 30 years ago.

Tired, cold, and wet we gathered together to make our way home. I found that I had done quite well compared to the others and my haul was admired by the masters as well as vetted for any non-Chanterelles. So what do you do with a bunch of Chanterelles freshly picked? We cleaned them and made a soup with them along with freshly collected Oregon mussels and fall garden vegetables and named it Mushelroom Soup. It was the most fabulous concoction I’d ever eaten and I now had to contend with the fact that my once immutable mushroom hatred had been completely incorrect. If that could be so fatally flawed then what other belief did I have wrong? My world was truly shaken. Everything had to be reevaluated and I came to realize that some of the things that I thought were a foundation to stand on were actually bars of a prison.

Though Chanterelles are still my favorite mushroom, Shitakes are a close second. Every time I eat them they remind me that beliefs may feel secure but they can also become limiters. It’s important to shake the bars of my cage every once in a while so I regularly test Cantaloupes to see if my taste for it has changed. No good on that front so far but I entertain the possibility that it may happen someday.

I’m delighted to have recently found Chanterelles at my local Costco all wrapped up in plastic but with little bits of the forest litter still attached. My surprise at finding them there triggered this memory and makes me wonder about that magic mountain in Oregon. Probably fully developed into a suburban subdivision but just maybe the Chanterelles are still growing there.