So the Friday, we took Jeff's parents to Boulder for an early dinner. We got back early, the weather was nice and I decided it was a great time for an evening mushroom hunt. My parents and Jeff came along. We cut through the neighbor's lot into the National Forest in our beautiful little Rolllinsville canyon. There we were greeted with cheery, though poisonous clumps of red and white Amanita muscaria, earthy boletes and adorable pink and white russulas. I was proud to find russulas, still unhatched under three inches of pine duff. It wasn't long before the paper grocery bag I'd brought was stuffed.
When we got back to the house I spread out my bounty on the kitchen table and went to work with a stack of books to identify the mushies. I'd just bought a new book, All That the Rain Promises I used it to identify the russulas as Russula xerampelina, "Delicious!" the book exclaimed, "This mushroom is vastly under-appreciated, perhaps because it resembles the hordes of other russulas that litter our coniferous forests. Some specimens lack the telltale blush of rose on the stalk; pass these up until you know the species better." Elsewhere, I read that the only repercussion from eating a bad russula (on this continent) was some gastrointestinal distress and that any russula that would cause problems would taste unpleasantly peppery anyway.
I had six russulas, three with a blush on the stalk, three without. One even had a charming kiss shaped blush. I tasted a small chunk from each including the smallest of the blushless ones. They were all pretty bland and tasteless - as they should be raw. Other than the tinge of pink they were all pretty much identical.
I decided to dry saute the three with a blush but one was wormy so I grabbed the smallest of the blushless ones as a substitute. They all tasted the same anyway, right?
I cracked some sea salt into a hot pan and tossed in the chopped russulas. Pink liquid bubbled out like champagne. A delicious smell, like butter and garlic filled the kitchen. The liquid cooked away and I added just the tiniest pat of butter, not wanting to spoil the russulas' natural flavor. I slid them onto a plate and sat down with a fork. My parents had gone to bed before I started the identification process but Jeff and his mom, Brenda watched as I tasted the now pale pink mushrooms. "WOW! These are DELICIOUS!" They almost tasted like stone crab; delicate, sweet and buttery with a meaty texture. Not wanting to be greedy, I quickly offered some to Jeff and Brenda. Brenda had a bite and Jeff, usually a mushroom hater, had five bites. They both agreed, these mushrooms were great! I finished my plate and went to bed.
At about 2 a.m. I got up to go to the bathroom. I felt OK, but slightly odd. I paused before going back to bed and vomited! I remember feeling heartbroken, like a close friend had betrayed me. Those beautiful, friendly looking pink mushrooms - how could they! Still I didn't feel too bad so I climbed back into bed, "Note to self, don't eat the pretty pink mushrooms." Hah! Like I was going to get off that easy.
Within moments I was back in the bathroom where I would spend the next five hours in Russula Hell. Jeff heard the commotion and came to hold vigil and research mushroom poisoning. I sent him away when it started coming out both ends. I managed to sleep a little between bouts but mostly curled up shivering under a towel I pulled down from the rack. By the end I felt like I had a combination of Cholera and Norovirus. I'm an expert on both unfortunately. Through it all, I was horrified at the possibility that I'd made Jeff and Brenda sick as well. At least I'd been a bit of a pig and hopefully spared them this much torture.
After much misery I fell into a cold, fitful sleep. I woke up to worried voices discussing a ride down the canyon to the emergency room in Boulder - a twisty, winding 35 minute trip. Scenic on a normal day, not fun when you're nauseous. But when my mom came in with serious eyes and worried over possible liver damage, I knew I had to go.
Thankfully, I'd already exorcised most of the russula demons from my body and the trip down the canyon was uneventful. Mercifully, the emergency room was empty and I was quickly questioned and poked with IVs and blood tests.
My dad had bundled up the remaining russulas, the mushroom books and spore prints which were turned over to the doctor who called the mycologist (both women). Somewhere in my russula-addled brain, I was cheered to be cared for by women in science and medicine.
The mycologist reported, via the doctor, that I'd been correct in identifying the mushrooms as russulas. Beyond that, there were hundreds of russulas and they were a very confusing group to ID. While they did look almost identical to the photos of the Shrimp Russulas, they were also similar to the Emetic Russula. "Emetic means vomiting." The doctor explained cheerfully. "It may be related or you may have discovered a new species."
"Well, that's cool," I thought. What's Latin for makes Anastasia throw up? Vomitis anastasii? That has a nice ring to it.
Two IV bags of saline and anti-nausea drug later, I'd re-inflated to a satisfactory level. The blood test had come back OK, no liver damage.
Meanwhile, right about the time they were hooking me up to the IV, Jeff was descending into Russula Hell. I watched him turn yellow, sweat broke out on his forehead. He asked directions to the restroom with panic in his eyes. I felt SO BAD. I felt even worse when Wilson reported that Brenda was suffering the same fate. They were supposed to be flying out that afternoon. Now she couldn't even make it up the stairs.
In the end, we all came through it relatively unscathed. We suffered according to how much we'd eaten. I packed up all the mushrooms I'd been drying around the house and tossed them in the trash. I think I may design a t-shirt: "Ask me how I lost 7 lbs in one day on the amazing mushroom diet!" Needless to say, I think I'll be laying off the wild mushrooms.
Photos courtesy my mom's blog, http://blueholevilla.blogspot.com
I had six russulas, three with a blush on the stalk, three without. One even had a charming kiss shaped blush. I tasted a small chunk from each including the smallest of the blushless ones. They were all pretty bland and tasteless - as they should be raw. Other than the tinge of pink they were all pretty much identical.
I decided to dry saute the three with a blush but one was wormy so I grabbed the smallest of the blushless ones as a substitute. They all tasted the same anyway, right?
I cracked some sea salt into a hot pan and tossed in the chopped russulas. Pink liquid bubbled out like champagne. A delicious smell, like butter and garlic filled the kitchen. The liquid cooked away and I added just the tiniest pat of butter, not wanting to spoil the russulas' natural flavor. I slid them onto a plate and sat down with a fork. My parents had gone to bed before I started the identification process but Jeff and his mom, Brenda watched as I tasted the now pale pink mushrooms. "WOW! These are DELICIOUS!" They almost tasted like stone crab; delicate, sweet and buttery with a meaty texture. Not wanting to be greedy, I quickly offered some to Jeff and Brenda. Brenda had a bite and Jeff, usually a mushroom hater, had five bites. They both agreed, these mushrooms were great! I finished my plate and went to bed.
At about 2 a.m. I got up to go to the bathroom. I felt OK, but slightly odd. I paused before going back to bed and vomited! I remember feeling heartbroken, like a close friend had betrayed me. Those beautiful, friendly looking pink mushrooms - how could they! Still I didn't feel too bad so I climbed back into bed, "Note to self, don't eat the pretty pink mushrooms." Hah! Like I was going to get off that easy.
Within moments I was back in the bathroom where I would spend the next five hours in Russula Hell. Jeff heard the commotion and came to hold vigil and research mushroom poisoning. I sent him away when it started coming out both ends. I managed to sleep a little between bouts but mostly curled up shivering under a towel I pulled down from the rack. By the end I felt like I had a combination of Cholera and Norovirus. I'm an expert on both unfortunately. Through it all, I was horrified at the possibility that I'd made Jeff and Brenda sick as well. At least I'd been a bit of a pig and hopefully spared them this much torture.
After much misery I fell into a cold, fitful sleep. I woke up to worried voices discussing a ride down the canyon to the emergency room in Boulder - a twisty, winding 35 minute trip. Scenic on a normal day, not fun when you're nauseous. But when my mom came in with serious eyes and worried over possible liver damage, I knew I had to go.
 |
| The evidence, bagged and tagged. |
The mycologist reported, via the doctor, that I'd been correct in identifying the mushrooms as russulas. Beyond that, there were hundreds of russulas and they were a very confusing group to ID. While they did look almost identical to the photos of the Shrimp Russulas, they were also similar to the Emetic Russula. "Emetic means vomiting." The doctor explained cheerfully. "It may be related or you may have discovered a new species."
"Well, that's cool," I thought. What's Latin for makes Anastasia throw up? Vomitis anastasii? That has a nice ring to it.
Two IV bags of saline and anti-nausea drug later, I'd re-inflated to a satisfactory level. The blood test had come back OK, no liver damage.
Meanwhile, right about the time they were hooking me up to the IV, Jeff was descending into Russula Hell. I watched him turn yellow, sweat broke out on his forehead. He asked directions to the restroom with panic in his eyes. I felt SO BAD. I felt even worse when Wilson reported that Brenda was suffering the same fate. They were supposed to be flying out that afternoon. Now she couldn't even make it up the stairs.
 |
| Me, post russula, looking like I'm trying out for a part in An American Tale. |
Photos courtesy my mom's blog, http://blueholevilla.blogspot.com
| “Ce plat de champignons a changé la destinée de l'Europe. ("This dish of mushrooms changed the destiny of Europe.") | ” | |
—Voltaire, Mémoires
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