This one’s about mushrooms
Growing a mushroom block didn’t feel like growing anything else. It was more like we cut them an escape route. I sunk my knife deep through the plastic into the soft belly of the substrate and it was like I breached the barrier between their world and ours. For a couple days, nothing happened. Then the X I’d marked began to turn black and soon a heavy mound was pressing against the plastic. Soon the blue oysters emerged and every morning their arms reached out further into the room. It began to feel like there was another person who lived with us, a quiet and strange guest who always sat at the kitchen table. (We never gave our block a name; I’m sure mushrooms have names in some mushroom-language that we are not on the level to comprehend.) It was a little frightening how fast it grew. Mushrooms have that tendency to discomfort. I love it.
It’s easy to grow a mushroom block because mushrooms are just the fruiting body of a larger more complex body called the mycelium, which was already well-established in that bag. In nature, the mycelium would detect the presence of oxygen and water and choose that as an opportunity to push out it’s bulbous caps with their soft gills that would spread their spores throughout the forest. Like so many things, the part that we see and know is only a hint of something greater.
During one of my Zoom calls last week, a friend who is alone in the wilds of British Columbia — just about as far as possible from Brooklyn in the continent or in the texture of daily life — took us on a brief mushroom walk, holding her iPad out in front of her as she stepped through the forest. We searched the grainy video, like deer with bad eyesight, for the mushroom patch she promised us was there. The presence of the forest poured out through the screen and enveloped us. Throughout the week when I’m feeling confined in my apartment, I think about this friend. Just one human in the woods, eating what it has to offer, not such an aberration to the plants and animals that were already living there.
In the last decade, scientists have learned some astonishing things about the role of mycelium in forests. If you’re a nerd, you might’ve heard the term “wood-wide web.” It refers to the information and resource-sharing network between trees that indicates that forests are much more complex, connected, and reactive than we believed. The hyphae, or thin fungal tubes that make up mycelium, stretch between the sensitive root-ends of trees and transport nutrients between them based on need. They also share knowledge. When a tree is attacked by aphids, other trees begin to produce resistant chemicals because they have been “warned” of the danger through their mycelial connections. Perhaps it was wrong of us to think of trees as self-contained beings, some scientists say. Maybe it’s the forest that holds intelligence.
I love mushrooms, but I know not everybody does. They’re slimy and weird. Animals and fungi diverged on the evolutionary tree 1.5 billion years ago, making mushrooms just about the most alien thing I put into my body on a regular basis. We’ve recently been eating a lot of lion’s mane, which looks like a big stringy puff (I learned that the name in Korean refers to white tailed deer, which is actually a much better description). I like them for the taste — sort of like chicken or crab — and because i find it so absurd that humans ever thought it was a good idea to try pulling this thing off a tree and eating it. For a species who seems to eat an awful lot of other organisms that closely resemble us, I think it’s great that we also enjoy these fungal aliens.
When the mushroom block had ballooned up with enormous oyster bouquets on either side, we dismantled our guest and ate its offerings. Hopefully it’ll grant us another flush in a week or so, but it not, we’ll break apart the sawdust substrate and turn it into compost for the box of chives on the fire escape. Hardly a forest in here, this brick-and-glass apartment of window plants, two humans, and a cat. But some sort of ecosystem, connected in known and unknown ways to everything else on this alien planet.
What I’m reading
The Hidden Life of Trees: What They Feel, How They Communicate, by Peter Wohlleben
Over centuries, a single fungus can cover many square miles and network an entire forest. The fungal connections transmit signals from one tree to the next, helping the trees exchange news about insects, drought, and other dangers…In the symbiotic community of the forest, not only trees but also shrubs and grasses — and possibly all plant species — exchange information this way. However, when we step into farm fields, the vegetation becomes very quiet. Thanks to selective breeding, our cultivated plants have, for the most part, lost their ability to communicate above or below ground. Isolated by their silence, they are easy prey for insect pests. That is one reason why modern agriculture uses so many pesticides. Perhaps farmers can learn from the forests and breed a little more wildness back into their grain and potatoes so that they’ll be more talkative in the future.
The world feels much more clamorous every time I put down Wohlleben’s book and go outside. Much of the book concerns itself with trees’ communication — which they apparently do not only through fungal networks but through olfactory, visual, electrical signals, and possibly even sonic waves. I cast a suspicious eye at the old trees in the park near my house and wonder if they’re talking about me.
What I’m cooking
Mushrooms, many ways
These are our homegrown blue oysters! We made a cool timelapse of them growing.
Hot pan, add fat, add mushroom
That’s the recipe I follow 90% of the time I cook mushrooms. As long as the stems aren’t extremely woody, I usually cook them as well, just dicing small and throwing them on the pan before the rest. Salt causes mushrooms to release their water, so if you want them to get brown on the outside and stay juicy on the inside, add the salt at the end of cooking.
Freeze them
Cook them in plenty of fat as above, then place them uncovered on a baking sheet in the freezer. Once they’re frozen sold, put them into a freezer bag.
Juicy, herb-y mushrooms
Roughly chop a nice mix into bite-size pieces and cook them in olive oil on a cast iron pan until browned. Turn off the heat, then add a couple cloves of crushed garlic, some salt and pepper, chopped fresh herbs like thyme or dill, and a bit more oil (truffle oil to be fancy). Mix it all together in the pan and cover it with a heavy lid while you make whatever else you’re making. The water that comes out of the mushrooms will mix with everything to form a delicious sauce that’s great with polenta or pasta or whatever.
Mushroom Bacon
Preheat oven to 350° F. Slice mushrooms thinly, then put them into a big bowl and toss with olive oil, paprika, togarashi or red pepper flakes, a pinch of MSG. Lay them out on a baking sheet with plenty of space and bake for 30 to 40 minutes, depending on how crispy you want them.
Marinated Mushrooms
Slice the mushrooms thinly. Blanch them by putting them in boiling water for about 45 seconds, until they are a bit soft. Drain and put them into their marinating container.
Heat up about half a cup each of water and vinegar in a saucepan, and add a tablespoon of salt, half a teaspoon of whole black peppercorns, a few dashes of paprika, or anything else you’d like to spice it with (a couple Sichuan peppercorns could be fun). Let the mixture come to a boil, then take it off the heat. Add one peeled garlic clove to the mixture.
Once the liquid is relatively cool, pour it over the mushrooms. Pour a couple tablespoons of olive oil over the top. Leave the mushrooms sealed in the fridge for at least three days and up to two weeks (I ate mine in a mushroom-and-cheese sandwich after 10 days and they were great).