written by Thor Erickson | photography by Tambi Lane
The early morning mist still clung to the Douglas firs when we pulled off the gravel forest road just east of the Cascades near Sisters. It was early summer, the sweet spot for morel mushroom season, and I was with my good friends Thomas and his son Chris. I’ve nicknamed Chris “the Mushroom Wizard” based on his knowledge and skill in the world of mushroom foraging—and his likeness to a wizard. We’d been texting back and forth about this excursion for weeks, waiting for just the right moment when the morels were up. We each carried a mesh bag, a pocket knife and a glint in the eye that only morel hunters know: hope, laced with visions of how we would use the fungi in our kitchens.
We hiked for a half mile in silence, not wanting to tip off anyone else to a good patch, adjusting our focus on the forest floor, damp, fragrant and padded with pine needles. Our eyes scanned the ground, dotted with false starts: pinecones, curled leaves, crinkled bark—all mimicking the morel’s signature honeycomb cap.
“The Wizard” stopped and paused, looking around. “We are close,” he whispered. He was right. We were near an old burn zone from the previous fire season, with nutrient-rich, disturbed soil—prime conditions for morels. We fanned out along a gentle slope, allowing space to maximize our chance of success. Apart from chirping birds overhead and the occasional woodpecker tapping rhythmically in the distance, it was dead quiet. Fifteen minutes passed with no sign. Then, Chris knelt suddenly and matter-of-factly mumbled, “Got one.”
We rushed over and crouched beside him. Nestled near the base of a charred stump, a brown morel poked through the duff, its brainy cap unmistakable. It wasn’t large, but it was perfect. He sliced it cleanly at the base, careful not to disturb the delicate mycelium beneath the surface. The hunt was on.
As the sun rose higher, the forest began to illuminate with possibility. Soon, Thomas found a pair, and then another beneath a fallen log. I wandered into a dip between two ridges and froze. There, in a cluster beside an old, blackened tree, was a fairy ring of morels—at least a dozen, tall and fat, like miniature forest lookout towers.
I let out a whoop, which echoed through the trees and brought the others running. We worked together slowly, harvesting each one with reverence. It wasn’t just about the mushrooms, it was about the ritual—the patience, the reward, the camaraderie. You could buy morels at a gourmet market for $50 a pound, but those sterile things couldn’t compare to these, dug from the earth with our own hands.
By midday, our bags were half full, and we sprawled out on a mossy log for lunch. Thomas passed around smoked oysters and hard cheese, while I cracked open a cold beer. Sunbeams filtered through the canopy as we planned our uses for our haul.
“Risotto,” Thomas declared. “Morel risotto is so good!”
“I will freeze mine so I can eat them all year,” Chris announced.
After some thought, I stated, “A rich cream sauce to use over pasta, or on top of freshly baked bread.”
Here is that recipe.
Morel Cream Sauce
Ingredients:
- 1 pound morels, cleaned of any dirt
- 3 tablespoons unsalted butter
- ½ cup finely diced shallots
- 1 tablespoon chopped fresh garlic
- ½ cup dry white wine or sherry
- ¼ cup chicken or vegetable stock
- 1 cup heavy cream
- Fresh snap peas
- Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
- Sliced chives, for garnish
- Shaved Parmigiano Reggiano cheese
Instructions:
- Cut the morels in half lengthwise. Large mushrooms from the end of the season may be cut into quarters. Quickly submerge morels in water to clean them, and then set out on paper towels to dry while you prep the rest of the ingredients.
- Heat butter in a large, stainless steel sauté pan. Add the morels and a pinch of salt, and cook, stirring occasionally, until they’ve released their juices. Sauté until the juices have almost entirely evaporated. Add the shallot and garlic, and cook for 1 minute. Add the wine, and cook to reduce by half.
- Add stock, and cook to reduce by half.
- Add the cream, and simmer until the sauce is thickened. If you cook the mixture a bit too much and it looks overly thick, adjust it with an extra splash of cream or stock, and simmer for another minute or 2.
- Add the fresh peas, and let simmer for 1 minute.
- Season with salt and black pepper.
- Spoon the morels over your favorite pasta. (I like pappardelle, as the shape is coated nicely by the mushroom sauce.)
- Garnish with sliced chives and the shaved cheese.
