That Stinks!

Ho ho!

My first attempt at mushroom identification has been successful! Unfortunately the results were not in my favor.

After a successful fishing trip with my brother and my buddy Matt, I, in my impoverished state, conceived of a practically free meal. With fresh trout in the fridge, and a bag of spinach from the food bank I decided that all I needed was some rice, which I had, to create a delicious meal.


However, upon reading the food section in the post today, I saw pictures of a mushroom that looked suspiciously like the ones growing in my front yard. The caption? Morels! “Ah ha!” I exclaimed. “The fabulous forest fruit diligently hunted and extensively documented by my hero Jim Harrison up in the UP, growing in my own front yard!”


I talked with my wild uncle who was enthusiastic. “They look just like penises,” I said. “Those are morels he confirmed.” I looked them up on Wikipedia to see if they had any preparation tips. There it said that one should beware of false morels which are poisonous.

Not wishing to destroy my liver immediately, I decided I should do some more research. I found loads of pictures of morals, but none that looked quite right. “Something’s wrong here,” I concluded.

After nearly an hour of searching pages with disclaimers like: “Warning, this page is not meant to be used to identify wild mushrooms for consumption, many mushrooms are extremely poisonous and could cause death,” I finally found the information I needed.

The mushrooms I had found were known as stinkhorns; that would explain the extremely foul stench. Wildman Steve on his Stinkhorn Homepage (http://www.econetwork.net/~wildmansteve/Mushrooms.Folder/Stinkhorns.html) has this to say:

Stinkhorns are too disgusting to eat, although none that I know of are poisonous. Nevertheless, people have tried eating the cooked eggs of some species after removing the slime layer. I reluctantly tried one bite of a cooked stinkhorn egg just once, so I could speak about the experience first-hand. I noticed very little flavor and a markedly unpleasant texture before I spit it out!

Apparently, the foul odor and slimy texture of the stinkhorn drive any thought of eating the buggers from the consideration of all rational people unlike myself. My feast was concluded late in the night sans fungi. Lesson learned.

I want a girl, just like the girl, that married dear old dad.

Hello readers,

It might come as some surprise that the Hungry blog’s readership is somewhat limited. Although my national fan base has yet to develop, I am comforted by the fact that the readers I do have are loyal and supportive. Thus today I dedicate this entry to one of my most loyal and long-time enthusiasts, this one’s for you Mom.

Mothers everywhere are intimately connected to one’s culinary habits. From the embryonic fluid of the womb to the Thanksgiving turkey, our moms have been the source of life-giving nutrients from the moment of conception through adulthood. The warm nostalgia conveyed by the phrase “just like mother used to make” confirms the spiritual connection that every child feels toward the maternal victuals consumed and savored throughout childhood.

Sitting here with my brother Ben we are attempting to think back on the foods we remember fondly that our mother either made or introduced us to. Ben was remembering that when mom used to drop us off at piano lessons and go grocery shopping, many times when she picked us up there was a Lindt chocolate bar waiting to be divided amongst us. Another meal that we remember with misty eyes was her pork chops and rice, a meal that to this day has become symbolic as the peak comfort food in our lives. Mom is and was a baker, baking bread and chocolate chip cookies. I remember as a special treat my brother and I were each given a beater to lick off. I can still feel the tongue gymnastics involved in trying to wrap around that final hidden pocket of sweetness. But for me, mom’s highest art was the pie. As a child I never liked the gooey icing slathered over cakes, so for my birthday mom would make pie. Cherry, peach, strawberry rhubarb and lemon chess, oh you pies with your flaky crusts I’ve never quite managed to duplicate. Fruit pies you haunt my dreams. A ball of vanilla ice cream added to the side transformed it all to heaven by the forkful.

Most of our greatest fine dining experiences have also been planned and paid for by mom and dad. One family outing that we all regularly look back on was at a restaurant called Nisa La Bella on a family vacation in southern France. This multi-course meal was punctuated by the singing of the restaurant song. Traveling with mom and dad is always a gastronomic wonder. The many places we have tried are too numerous to list but will probably be examined in future posts. One of our favorite local restaurants is Sweet Basil in Vail. It takes very little coaxing to get mom to agree to eat out at Sweet Basil.



But Mom is not only responsible for what you eat, but how you eat. We will be forever grateful to our parents for their eating policies. When we were children the rule was that we didn’t have to eat anything we didn’t want to eat. We also weren’t forced to clean our plates, though we usually did. If we didn’t want to eat something, however, nothing special was ever made for us as a substitute. Thus our palates were linked to our stomachs at an early age. The other policy which probably saved me from jail was the rule that we all had to eat dinner together as a family. This was probably the golden rule and kept our family strong.



Nowadays, it there are fewer pleasures greater then getting together for family dinner in Georgetown. My parents eat better than anyone I know. After work and the dog walk the ritual is cocktails and cooking. They try new things and turn us on to many fantastic ideas. The wine flows freely and everyone goes to bed happy.

So thank you mom, for all you have done and continue to do for us, your two boys. And from us to you with hearts full of love; HAPPY MOTHERS DAY.

Alligator Mississippiensis

Hello readers,

Rather then a drawn out expination for why I haven't written in over a year I will simply post. About this time a year ago I went out to visit my good buddy Matt. He lives in Florida now, near Daytona, but when I met him he was translating in Dusseldorf, Germany. Matt became one of those friends that only someone who has lived for a lengthy time overseas can understand. In a foreign culture, someone who you might never have found much in common with back home, becomes the person you have more in common with than anyone around strictly due to sharing a nationality. This is by no means to say that every American I have met abroad I became best freinds with, heavens-to-Betsy no. But there are some people that you click with. These are the people that when the country and all the horrible people in it really start to get to you, you can vent to them and they understand. I have had five such friends, Luke and Vince in Chile, Hermann and Michelle in Spain, and Matt in Germany.


Matt and I had several adventures in Europe, notably weekend trips to Amster-dam and Barcelona and camping on the Belgiian/Dutch border. But we had never gotten together State-side. So last year having just quit my job I flew down to Florida for a few days visit. Since this is supposed to be a food blog, let me get to the meat of things. Matt is a fantastic guy and talented in many things, but his eating habits have often dissapointed me. Some people don't like seafood, but it seems a sin to pass up the lovely crustations of Spain. He mostly sticks to the red meat and vegetable diet. Not to say he hasn't introduced me to some outstanding chow. First and foremost being the Schweinebrotchen, a crispy on the outside, tender on the inside cut of pork on a roll, absolutely essential eating upon leaving the debacherous clubs of Dusseldorf's Altstat. But I gave it a second thought upon demanding we stop at the fishmarket we drove by on the way back from the beach.


Thorough searching yeided gator tail. I had eaten gator tail before as an appetizer at the Flagstaff house, a game restaurant above Boulder, but I had never attempted to cook it. Matt seemed amiable to the idea so we bought 16oz of the beast and stopped by Walmart for some other supplies. The best food in Daytona seems to be greasy hamburgers and BBQ, so I was happy for something exotic. I cut the tail in pieces and breaded it in some Zatarain's New Orlean's fish fry. I sauteed the tail and seved it with jumbalaya and rice.



The consistancy is what you would expect given the monster's position on the evolutionary time line, somewhere between fish and chicken. The taste was scrumptious, but its hard to go wrong breaded and fried. We washed it down with some rum and ate some of Matt's mom's key lime pie for dessert. This was followed by more rum and one of Matt's fine cigars from his collection.



I look back on all this fondly, but I also look forward to Matt's arrival in two weeks. Yes the two Matts will once again be reunited, this time in my home of Colorado. Maybe this time I can get him to eat fish.