MEALS OF REMEMBRANCE
A Widow Bit – June 22, 2008
By Mary Koch

            My late husband was an ardent forager. John stalked the forests and roadsides for wild asparagus, the occasional root or berry and most especially, the elusive mushroom.

            Wild mushrooms were his passion, and he was a master at finding them. Once, he stunned relatives visiting from the East when, driving at a 50- or 60-mph clip, he slammed on the brakes, and announced, “I spotted some mushrooms!” He backed up the car and there were the shaggy manes. At highway speeds, they looked to anyone else like white rocks along the roadside. That evening, he served our visitors sautéed wild mushrooms on Okanogan bred and broiled beefsteaks.

            Another time John and I were driving more slowly along a forest road, drinking in splendid fall colors. “I saw a morel,” he announced.

            “Impossible,” I answered. Morel mushrooms come up only in spring.

            “Wanna bet?” he asked. I knew better and shook my head. He leapt from the car,  returning triumphantly with a healthy-sized morel. It was not only out of season but growing at least 20 yards off the road in thick brush and grass. He couldn’t possibly have seen it; it just showed up on his infallible fungus radar.

            Mushroom hunters have a respected tradition; they never tell where they have harvested their treasures. It is considered rude, at best naïve, even to ask. But as much as he loved gathering mushrooms, John also loved sharing his knowledge. He never tired of taking novices to prime hunting grounds.

            He introduced two friends, Richard and Marilyn, to the thrill of the hunt, and they have become experts in their own right. They’ve never forgotten who taught them. Every year they deliver what they call their “tithe,” an ample portion of their harvest. When Marilyn called last week to say they had mushrooms for me, I protested that I’d already received this year’s tithe. But the late, wet spring led to an extended mushroom season, and they were willing to share again.

            I went to the farmers’ market and picked up an Oberg Brothers steak from Tina Timmerman – I wouldn’t waste precious morels on anything but local beef – and some fresh-picked local greens for salad. To top it off, I had a cabernet from La Toscana, the Cashmere winery operated by longtime friends, Warren and Julie Moyles.

            For once that night I did not eat to the accompaniment of either the television or a book, my usual dinner companions. I took my plate and wineglass out to the patio, where I could watch the river, high and powerful with the spring runoff.

            The meal was perfect: the beef tender, the salad greens sweet, the mushrooms and wine exquisite. It was Sunday, and I thought about the Eucharistic meal I’d participated in that morning. “Do this in remembrance of me,” intones the priest.

            My evening meal, too, was sacramental, remembrances as endless as the river’s flow. And gratitude. My life is so empty without him and so rich because of him.

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