{"id":2826,"date":"2010-04-25T07:15:29","date_gmt":"2010-04-25T14:15:29","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.nerdseyeview.com\/blog\/?p=2826"},"modified":"2010-04-25T09:58:06","modified_gmt":"2010-04-25T16:58:06","slug":"chanterelles-and-shotgun-shells","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.nerdseyeview.com\/blog\/2010\/04\/25\/chanterelles-and-shotgun-shells\/","title":{"rendered":"Chanterelles and Shotgun Shells"},"content":{"rendered":"

A few years ago when I was in Perugia attending the Universit\u00c3\u00a0 per Stranieri, my host family invited me to go mushroom hunting. Nothing heralds the arrival of Fall in Italy more than a trip to the bosco<\/em> (the woods) to gather chestnuts or mushrooms. That, and the sound of gunfire are leading indicators summer is over and hunting season has begun.<\/p>\n

Before we left for the woods we looked at an Italian website dedicated to mushroom hunting that was kind of like YouTube for fungi where people posted photos of their mushrooms and notes on where they found them. Our group of nine included three children under the age of ten, and one professional chef named Micra.<\/p>\n

I was relieved that Micra was with us, I figured a professional chef could tell an edible mushroom from a toxic one. But when we got to the trailhead, Diego, the nine-year\u00e2\u20ac\u201cold, was given custody of the book \u00e2\u20ac\u02dcFungi of Umbria\u00e2\u20ac\u2122. Upon sighting some specimens, Diego rapidly flipped thru the book to determine if the mushroom was buon<\/em> or cattivo<\/em> good or bad. I was appalled. Would you eat a wild mushroom identified by a nine-year-old? I doubt it. Neither would I.<\/p>\n

Micra, the chef, added to my apprehension by saying I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d been invited along as the gatto<\/em> “cat”– meaning if in doubt a mushroom was safe or toxic, give it to the cat first. Each time we came across a new mushroom Micra would look at me with an evil grin and I would insist \u00e2\u20ac\u201c\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Non sono il gatto\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/em>\u00e2\u20ac\u201dI am not the cat!<\/p>\n

We tramped up and down hillsides thick with pine, oak and chestnut trees and carried large flat bottom baskets woven out of branches and twigs. The baskets were the mark of a serious mushroom hunter. Fungi were very fragile, and according to Micra only amateurs used plastic bags to collect mushrooms. Style counts in Italy. Even in the woods.<\/p>\n

I found clusters of orange and yellow chanterelles that reminded me of coral reefs and some odd flat headed mushrooms with brown edges and gooey golden-red centers that looked like cheese danish left out in the rain. The children found some porcinis.<\/p>\n

As we hiked deeper into the forest we heard gunfire and the sounds of dogs on the chase. Then all of a sudden, a huge boar, or dog (I never saw what exactly) ran through the brush squealing and snorting. I flung myself to the ground and covered my head with the basket. Face down I could smell the dank mulch of leaves and the sharp sulfur scent of gunpowder. When I opened my eyes, I saw the ground was strewn with plastic tubes in red and yellow and green. I was shocked at the amount of litter the hunters created and pointed out all the spent shotgun shells to Micra. He laughed and explained that the pro loco<\/em> (the local community) had tired to reduce litter by devising a program in which empty cartridges could be redeemed for free drinks in the local bar. But the hunters still couldn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t be bothered to pick them up. I eyed the shells again and wondered how many shots of grappa they might be exchanged for. Forget the mushrooms! Here was something worth collecting. Then I suggested they gear the program towards kids and offer an exchange of shotgun shells for toys. All they had to do was turn the kids loose and the fields would be cleaned up in no time. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153That idea is so American!\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Micra said.<\/p>\n

Back at the trailhead we stood about admiring the harvest\u00e2\u20ac\u201d several porcinis, chanterelles and some other edible specimens. At least I hoped they were edible. I was still preoccupied with my role as the mushroom tasting cat. As a precaution, I took some photos of the mushrooms thinking the pictures might help whoever found our bodies determine our cause of death. Luckily, all the mushrooms we collected were safe and my nine cat lives remained intact. But I would I need every extra life I could get, for the following week we were going to hunt castange<\/em> chestnuts, in an area known for chingale<\/em>, wild boar. The area was also very popular with chingale<\/em> hunters and I hoped I could find a Prada vest made of kevlar before my next outing in the bosco<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Marcy Gordon’s travel stories have appeared in several Travelers’ Tales anthologies including Best Women’s Travel Writing 2010, 30 Days in Italy, The Thong Also Rises, and More Sand in My Bra. She is a contributing editor for Authentic Italy, a travel guide series published by Touring Club of Italy. She has a ukulele and writes a blog about wine, food and travel at Come for the Wine<\/a>. <\/span><\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A few years ago when I was in Perugia attending the Universit\u00c3\u00a0 per Stranieri, my host family invited me to go mushroom hunting. Nothing heralds the arrival of Fall in Italy more than a trip to the bosco (the woods) to gather chestnuts or mushrooms. That, and the sound of gunfire are leading indicators summer … <\/p>\n


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