On the Fungi Frontier

Above: Shiitake mushrooms, photo courtesy of Mu Mushrooms.

Every spring, the forests thaw out, dust winter off the duff and awaken with new growth. As saplings take root and young buds emerge, a humble, vital organism materializes from the dirt: the mysterious–and often delicious–mushroom. From the foraged to the farmed, southern Wisconsin offers an array of choice in edible fungi.

Morel-y Speaking

“You don’t find the mushroom,” seasoned morel hunter Todd Lund explains as he stirs a pan of freshly harvested morels sizzling in butter. “The mushroom finds you.” His enigmatic advice captures the mystique of morels, the coveted delicacy that pops up in Wisconsin woodlands each spring and in more unusual places such as flower pots, fireplaces, and even the remains of deceased pets. Unpredictable and ephemeral, morels attract eager mycophiles to the forest every year, their unique taste earning them one of the highest spots among fungi in the culinary canon. Lund spoons a glistening morsel onto a paper towel and hands it to me. The taste is subtle, one-of-kind and difficult to describe. It’s meaty, earthy, nutty and woodsy. It coats my palate with a delicate richness that immediately leaves me craving more. The morel’s mild flavor is often used to elevate omelets, quiches and pizzas; enrich cream sauces and pastas, and provide a savory counterpoint to wild game and meat. But they’re also perfect on their own, sautéed in something fatty and sprinkled with salt.

Lund, like many mushroom hunters, is charmingly hesitant to reveal the exact location of his morel spot. It’s somewhere near the Kickapoo River, and it consistently yields bagfuls of the honey-combed, hollow, sac-fungus. He explains that a good rule of thumb for finding morels is to look up: find trees that are dead or dying (typically elm or ash trees) and examine the ground near the base. Recently burned land and apple orchards are also known to foster the delectable morel. Morels typically start appearing in mid-May, after the first warm rain of the season, or when the oak leaves are the size of squirrel ears. And when you find one, there’s likely more nearby. The allure of mushroom hunting for Lund, like many foragers, comes not only from their culinary value, but also from the opportunity to get outside, explore and enjoy the natural world.

From Log to Ladle

For fungi-lovers less inclined to aimlessly wander the woods in search of mushrooms, or less comfortable identifying the edible kinds, local growers offer a wide range of cultivated, gourmet varieties. Matt Neff, of Mu Mushrooms, grows shiitakes on reclaimed oak logs at his small urban farm on the east side of Madison. “Fresh log-grown shiitakes are on another level,” says Neff. “I love to fry them up in ghee or sesame oil with salt and pepper, but I also love using them in miso soup, on a shiitake melt, or for jerky.” Committed to an open-source philosophy, Mu Mushrooms hopes to educate people about the joy and ease of growing mushrooms at home. “We hope to get kids and adults interested so people incorporate mushroom growing as a regular part of their spring gardening. We also want mushroom logs in everyone’s backyard, to create a decentralized community food source for stronger local food resilience and self-reliance,” explains Neff. In the past year, Neff’s shiitake cultivation has flourished to the point where he sells fully inoculated logs to people interested in growing their own mushrooms at home. Neff also cultivates the lesser known nameko mushroom (also known as the slime mushroom) which offers a snappy texture and nutty taste, perfect for stir fry.

Brain Food

Another Madison-area farm excelling in mushrooms is Vitruvian Farms in McFarland. As co-founders Shawn Kuhn and Tommy Stauffer guide me through their well-organized incubation rooms, they point out a specific mushroom variety that has been particularly popular: lion’s mane. “People are really starting to get excited both on the restaurant level and at farmers markets about lion’s mane. There’s been a lot of conversation about its effects on the mind and general health benefits,” explains Stauffer. Kuhn adds: “Preliminary studies have found that it helps regenerate the myelin sheath, which is a fatty protective layer on the long arm of the neurons. The more insulated that is with fat, the better your electrical signals fire.” As I mull over this fact, surrounded by shelves of the shaggy, alien-like orbs bulging out of sawdust bags, I can’t help but notice how similar the mushrooms look to brains themselves, and I wonder if the visual resonance has any evolutionary, ancestral relation to our own neural networks.

The culinary uses of lion’s mane are as interesting as the medicinal research around it. Its fruiting body has a soft, shreddy consistency, somewhat like seafood, which lends itself well to vegetarian versions of crab cakes, lobster rolls, and fish tacos. In addition to lion’s mane, Vitruvian grows chestnut mushrooms, black pearl kings, gray oysters and shiitakes–all of which are choice edibles and have distinct uses in the kitchen. “I love to cook shiitakes sliced and then sautéed in a soy-ginger-garlic glaze, either with honey or maple syrup. It creates this savory, sweet, amazing flavor. I can’t stop eating them,” muses Kuhn. Stauffer adds, “Shiitakes have a very recognizable umami essence that comes through even when you cook them with other things, whereas a lot of other mushrooms like oysters have such a mild flavor that they really soak up your cooking medium and become a flavor vessel for your cooking addition.”

All That is Gold

Unfortunately, not all mushrooms that grow in Wisconsin’s forests are considered welcome guests, even if they are tasty. The golden oyster, which is not native to the Midwest, or even to North America for that matter (it originated in Europe and Asia) has emerged around Wisconsin at a wildly explosive rate in the past few years. Bright yellow, scalloped and fan-like, golden oysters grow on dead logs and function as primary decomposers, breaking down plant matter and transforming it into soil, one step in the forest’s impeccably tuned cycle of life and death. Despite this important role in the ecosystem, when introduced into a non-native habitat, mushrooms can become an invasive species just like buckthorn, emerald ash borer or zebra mussels. This information surprised me, as I spoke with UW-Madison mycology professor Dr. Anne Pringle, PhD. Dr. Pringle is alarmed by the sudden appearance of golden oysters in local forests and is concerned about how they might throw off the delicate balance of the environment and threaten the ecosystem’s biodiversity. “It’s clear that these mushrooms have escaped cultivation,” Dr. Pringle explains, emphasizing that the grow-native concept should apply not only to plants, but mushroom growers as well. “You would never go out and plant garlic mustard in your garden,” she poignantly compares. “Even though it is technically edible, it outcompetes other species and reduces biodiversity.”

It’s not yet clear what the impact golden oysters will have on our region. “We would be rather negligent to assume that the rapid spread of any non-native species would be inconsequential to native ecosystems. The golden oysters’ swift spread suggests that the native decomposers are being outcompeted and displaced,” mycologist Andi Bruce states in her UW-La Crosse master’s thesis. Admittedly, I stumbled upon them many times last summer and found them to be an excellent addition to ramen and rice bowls. But my new awareness of the possible threat they pose to local ecosystems makes me check my enthusiasm. In retrospect, it was strange to find golden oysters growing so prolifically, given that I had never encountered them in previous years. And while I genuinely savored the experience of eating them, it would be tragic if they somehow outcompeted other beloved mushrooms such as morels, chanterelles, trumpets or my personal favorite–hen of the woods, also known as maitake or the dancing mushroom. Its appearance is like a flower, with multiple lobed petals radiating outward in rhythmic gradations of brown and gray. When cooked right, it becomes crispy around the edges, indeed resembling the flavor of chicken, but with a peppery, woody dimension. In mythology, it is alleged to produce more vivid dreams at night. I have yet to find a maitake of my own in the wild, though they commonly appear around the bases of oak trees in early fall. Perhaps this will be the year I find one—or perhaps, rather, it will find me.