The calling

The mushroom season is late. No rain, just heavy autumn mists. But at last, something called from deep within the woods...

...it might have been the death groans of this monstrous Earthball...a grotesque behemoth, and sadly inedible.

It could have been the trilling of this little dandy chap, an Orange Peel fungus, from the Elf Cup family. Lovely to look at, apparently edible according to this site, but not to our guide books - and more fit left as a jewel in the grass than fried in the pot...

... or was it the bellowing of a big shambling herd of Shaggy Parasoles, caught by Andy in a clearing, and quickly harvested before they could escape?

Perhaps it was the thin and reedy keening of the Sulphur Tuft, sickly yellow, and horribly poisonous - unless you are a woodland creature. Under the pine plantation, where the badgers thrive in their underground metropolis, they are nibbled and uprooted beneath the November moon.

But no, the call was the joyous song of our first Wood Blewits; a perfect match in the book I have had since I was eight. Lavender in colour, meaty in texture, and just waiting for my little knife to cut them free from the bonds of the piney earth.

Every cap is checked for internal inhabitants, wiped clean and fried - especially the dear little Wood Blewits, which need to be cooked thoroughly to avoid the mild allergic reaction they can produce in some people. Puffballs are examined for the slightest sign of yellowing, and discarded if not pristine white inside. The only time I gave myself an upset stomach from a wild mushroom was by eating an aging Puffball when I was eleven. Never again.

Into the pot, with five roasted chicken thighs, a tin of black eyed beans, sauteed leek, various bits of This and That, garlic, herbs, gravy...left in a medium oven for a couple of hours...and eaten before anyone had time to take a photo...

There is so much studio work to be done. But at this time of year, when the calling is strongest, half of my heart lies here...