|
- Click on each picture to enlarge -
- Click on each picture to enlarge -
- Click on each picture to enlarge -
- Click on each picture to enlarge -
- Click on each picture to enlarge -
- Click on each picture to enlarge -
- Click on each picture to enlarge -
- Click on each picture to enlarge -
- Click on each picture to enlarge -
- Click on each picture to enlarge -
- Click on each picture to enlarge -
- Click on each picture to enlarge -
- Click on each picture to enlarge -
- Click on each picture to enlarge -
|
|
|
My late Father dearly loved hunting Morel mushrooms each spring as they sprouted in the forests of northwest Michigan. He'd head out to one or more of his honey spots and return home with a parcel of shrooms in a paper grocery bag, his preferred container. After soaking them in saltwater to get rid of any insect hitchhikers, he'd promptly cut them in half and fry them up on the stove in a pan with garlic butter. I will never forget the pungent unpleasant odor that filled the house, much to the chagrin of everyone except him. My Dad didn't have to worry about having to share his bounty because my brother, sister, Mom, and I were so repelled by the smell, the idea of ingesting one of those fried stink bombs made about much sense to us as eating Limburger cheese, another smelly favorite of his. Don't get me wrong, this is a fond memory for me because of my Dad's excitement and joy, but maybe not so much for the stink. With him in mind, I was tickled to come across a few Morels in a Tennessee forest. The following is a picture of one of these bad boys. It was not ingested. 
There are few things Chrissy and I enjoy more than being with each other hunting for rocks and minerals deep in a forest on a warm sunny day.
Mike & Chrissy Streeter
|
CLICK THE LITTLE MINER TO RETURN TO THE FIELD TRIP PAGE 
| 
