This morning, I read the very short Hillbilly Haute Cusine article in Newsweek and got a kick out of it. I thought it was so fitting since we're driving down to Barnardsville tonight so I forwarded the link to Michael. His response: "Wow..... yes that's my childhood."
An excerpt written only by Steve Tuttle:
I remember specific mushrooms from my youth, like one I found at the base of a stump after my brother knocked me down in a fight. My head landed right next to it. And at every family reunion we all whisper about the legendary great white morel my mom found on Black Oak Hill in the 1960s. It was so big she saw it from the car, and it covered a whole slice of white bread. Perhaps the most memorable, though, was the one my brother found growing out of the side of a dead opossum. He was standing over it when my dad wisely said, "Let's leave that one alone." That's how good morels are: you have to pause for a beat before you decide not to pick one growing out of a dead animal.
