THE MOREL OF THIS STORY:
GENEROSITY MUSHROOMS
Journal of Healing – May 14, 2003
By Mary Koch

We're counting calories these days.

Just a few months ago we were counting swallows — the kind of swallow that accompanies eating. The kind of swallow that has been eluding my husband for more than nine years.

Ever since stroke stole his swallow, John has been limited to only occasional tastes of food — recreational eating, we call it. All his nutrition comes in liquid form, pumped directly into his stomach. It's amazing that people survive and even thrive living off a tube. But they're denied one of our basic human pleasures — the taste of good food.

Late last year, John's speech therapist introduced him to Deep Pharyngeal Neuromuscular Stimulation (DPNS). Translation: Gag me with a frozen lemon swab.

During three-times-a-week therapy sessions, John's swallow reflexes were forced into action. I wanted to empathize, so I asked Sandy, the therapist, to try it on me once. Once was more than enough.

But John stuck it out. After a couple months of determined effort, he was able to down an entire quarter-cup of yogurt. A couple more weeks, and it was a half-cup. Then a full cup.

* * *

WE'VE STOPPED counting cups and started counting calories. The more calories by mouth, the fewer calories by tube.

I've been counting calories all my adult life, but in the opposite direction. It's a new experience to stand in front of the dairy counter, by-pass low-fat and no-fat yogurts, and search for the highest possible concentration of calories.

I'm buying yogurt because chewing is another long-term hurdle in John's long list of challenges. I also buy baby food, which I help along with adult seasoning. And I've become a master of puree.

My biggest pureeing challenge arrived in a small paper bag delivered by John's physical therapist, Lynda. In the bag was a small "mess" of morel mushrooms. "Mess" was the word John used when hunting mushrooms to signal we'd gathered enough for a meal: "We've got a fine mess here."

* * *

GREATER LOVE hath no friend or therapist than to share a harvest of morels. Gifts of money and things are welcome, but you can always make more money and buy more things. Morels, on the other hand, are a limited and rare commodity, available only to wild mushroom hunters blessed with perspicacity and skill, not to mention dumb luck.

The successful morel hunter is rewarded with a meal fit for the gods — a meal you could easily hoard without a pang of guilt.

I cannot top the description provided by Tom Robbins in "Another Roadside Attraction:"

"Morels are ugly in the skillet. The caps look like the scrotums of leprechauns, the stems like the tusks of fetal elephants. Aromatically, the report is more positive. From the pan rises the smell of the whole North Woods stewing in butter. The morels grow friendlier to the nose. But in the mouth, now there is where these dangerous-looking plants really prove themselves. My God, I must confess it: their deliciousness exceeds normal limits of restraint."

Nervously I sautéed and pureed. I had only one chance to get it right. For the first time in nearly 10 years, John feasted on morels. Calories: at least 200 (from the two tablespoons of butter). Pleasure? Unlimited.

(Mary Koch writes about health care issues and her experiences as a family caregiver. Her husband, retired newspaper publisher John E. Andrist, was severely disabled by a stroke in 1993. They welcome your letters at P.O. Box 3346, Omak WA 98841 or e-mail them: marykoch@marykoch.com.)