The Gift of Chanterelles

When it is so hot and so muggy that even the thought of thinking causes beads of perspiration to form and drip down your thoroughly disgusted brow – you know it’s the perfect time to go foraging for chanterelles!

Deep in the forest where the blazing sun can’t reach – and where it still smells like damp leaves and moss, emerges one of nature’s finest culinary gifts. Chanterelles thrive in this weather - weather that is so hot and humid that it makes the rest of us wilt.

The salmon colored, vase-shaped, apricot-smelling mushrooms emerge from the forest floor – celebratory fruits of the fungi below.  They pop up in seemingly random spots, though mostly near oak trees where the leaf litter has been disturbed either by wild turkeys looking for acorns the previous fall, or by me traipsing through.

Like all mycorrhizal fungi, chanterelles form a symbiotic relationship with their host.  The fungi intertwines miles of its tiny strands of mycelium within the tree’s roots, allowing the fungi to suck down carbon and sugar produced by the tree - and allowing the tree to suck up the nutrients it needs from the soil. The mushroom’s mycorrhizal network exponentially increases the tree’s ability to collect water and nutrients, and ultimately to survive. It also connects neighboring trees and allows them to monitor each other’s health. If one tree is attacked by a caterpillar, that tree will begin to alter the chemistry of its leaves to make it less palatable. Neighboring trees will detect the substance and begin to manufacture it as well.  

I like to think my relationship with the fungi is symbiotic as well, though honestly, I am not so sure. Chanterelles certainly give me sustenance and joy- and perhaps carrying the mushrooms back through the forest in a netted bag, I help spread its spores. At least that’s what I tell myself, and just in case that’s not enough - I always remember to say “thank you” for the gift.