The
morels have shown themselves. Here are just some of our little beauties popping up through the leaf litter throughout the woods. I didn't know much about morels when we first moved out here, but after chatting up some of the locals, I quickly learned that they're (1) rare, (2) fleeting, (3) expensive if you have to buy them, (4) delicious, and (5) so highly prized that people will risk life, limb and employment to nab them.
So you can imagine my euphoria when I discovered this particular mushroom, photographed alongside a full pair of scissors for scale. He was the granddaddy of all morels - one of the biggest I've seen in my short mushroom-hunting career. I say "was" because Granddaddy was poached from our property not even an hour after I snapped this pic by the guy who comes to mow our pasture.
I caught him red-handed! When confronted, he admitted to picking it, but when I demanded that he hand it over, he said, "...uh, hmmm, I don't know where it went." Now c'mon! Of course he knew where it went, and it was apparent that he wasn't about to give it up. So what's a girl to do in this situation? Summon the sheriff? Pat him down? Pronounce him a big fat liar and other unflattering epithets? In the end, I resorted to a stern and hysterical lecture...something about "....only here to do the job I pay you to do..." and "...never, ever again help yourself to the morels..." and "...the same goes for the deer or wild turkeys or anything else you find out here..." and "...hey, I had big plans for that mushroom!"
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