The Minnesota Farm Woman

My friend Terri and I have been friends since I was in the first grade and she was in the second. She will be the first to tell you that picking berries and gathering mushrooms are some of her favorite things to do. My sister and brother-in-law are also gatherers. Me? I am a reader, and I prefer mysteries to mushrooms. The first spring that we were here, I was asked to join in the “fun” to gather mushrooms in my dad’s secret morel spot, deep in the north woods somewhere near our cabin.  Wearing spanking-new white tennis shoes, I tucked my cell phone in my pocket and grabbed a bag, picturing a dinner of  morel mushrooms sautéed in butter served with steaks on the grill. We had barely started down the trail when we came across a creek, filled with water from the spring thaw. Across the creek were some moss-slicked logs that  looked way too slippery to walk across.  Terri, having somehow maintained the exuberance and agility of our youth (in other words, she never quite grew up) leapt across with little effort and waited for the rest of us.  Me, having the agility of a three-legged donkey in a corral full of thoroughbreds grabbed a small sapling and tried to cross. My spanking-new white tennis shoes slipped in the wet clay soil and I fell on my a……well, let’s just say I fell on my biggest asset, if you get my drift. My shoes were filled with muddy water, my cell phone was dripping, and I was shivering. The others offered to wait for me while I changed into the only dry clothes available, an old pair of sweat pants hanging on a hook in the bedroom, but my shoes made a squelching sound with each step, so I declined and found my way back to the cabin, after they pointed me in the right direction. I was listening for bears or rabid wolves behind me with every waterlogged step, too.  Don’t feel too sorry for me, though.  The day was cold and misty but the cabin was toasty warm with a crackling fire.  There was a shelf full of books for the choosing, hot tea, and a bag of cookies. All was right with the world.  The mushroom hunters returned in what seemed like hours later, carrying bags full of morels and  smelling of cold  the great damp outdoors.  “Oh, you missed the best picking that we’ve had in years!” They proudly held up their bags. I tried to look sorrowful.  “Yes, too bad, isn’t it?” I guiltily hid the last cookie in my pocket and put my book away.  I must have looked pretty pitiful in my saggy baggy sweat pants with that sad look on my face because they each gave me half of their morels.   I learned that day that I do like morel mushrooms, but not enough to spend three hours tramping through mud and drizzle no matter how big they grow in that secret spot deep in the north woods. My fellow adventurers learned that if you are going to take a City Girl out into the Minnesota wilderness  to make sure she packs an extra set of clothes and her own bag of cookies. Oh, and one last thing:  Don’t ask me where the secret mushroom spot is.   I didn’t just fall off the rutabega truck, you know.   Those morel hunters are pretty serious about that kind of stuff.  I have a feeling that if I ever did tell, they surely wouldn’t point me in the right direction to find my way out of the woods the next time we go.