Again, the lure of the hunt. It's a bit like a mystery, piecing together the why of where you find them. How sunny? Which side of the tree? Under leaf cover, or bare ground? It's an addictive game, with the treasure being edible gold.
This time, a mountain road, a friend's new property. They haven't even built their house yet, but now we know that every year, around this time, we can wander up into the woods and, in the leaves rustling at the bottom of the tall poplars, sprouting from the lush ferment of the dead elms, we will find them.
It's just possible the season is over, and that is a mixed blessing. I won't spend my time foraging in the wood, and will get back to my house, and my desk, and the laundry that is threatening to over take the bathroom.
In the minus column, I won't spend time foraging in the wood. Losing my self in the zen of their trail, wandering from tree to tree my eyes on the ground, until one leaf looks like another, until the sun dappled forest floor dizzies me like a kaleidoscope. I won't keep my child up to all hours as we cook up the morels and eat them over pasta, over asparagus, drenched in ghee and olive oil.
Until next year.