Being There

Morels, cereus flowers, fiddle heads, tomatoes—I adore all of these plants that are so dependent on season and in some cases luck. I have never actually eaten a morel. However, I have heard them referenced often and have always thought they sounded delicious. I cannot imagine feeling anything but love for a secretive mushroom that is best cooked in butter and cream. It is my hope to someday find and gorge on my very own patch of morels.

The other plants I have consumed and/or gazed upon, and can say that my life is richer because of them. They all have a short window in which they can be optimally enjoyed. Of course you can buy a tomato at the grocery store all year long, but I am not talking about that kind. The ones I am thinking of are the tomatoes that are a vibrant red or gold color (not necessarily uniform), which are so ripe that they sometimes burst their skins leaving a fissure that extends deep into the meaty fruit. When you cut them open the meat falls apart into thick steaks and I like them best with a sprinkle of salt. It is the end of the summer and the tomatoes in Upstate New York are replete. I am doing my best to eat as many as possible.

There is voracity to my eating. Not only do I love fresh garden grown tomatoes, but while salting the slices I recall that there were no tomatoes last year. The blight took them all; only a few green tomatoes were salvaged, picked way before their prime. I breaded and fried them but they are incomparable to this year’s crop. I eat more than I should; I eat for when they are gone.

Last year I was introduced to fiddle heads. They are something that must belong to the world of elves. Small green coils, like the wood carving of a fiddle’s head, they push up in early spring and within a week start uncoiling and become mature ferns. For that week, I picked them, making sure not to thin out the patch too much. I sautéed them to eat plain and boiled them in soup. They have the snap of a green bean and were the first living color after a longer winter of root vegetables.

The night-blooming cereus flower, a native of the Sonoran Desert, is a feast for the eyes. The large bloom with its white petals and coral-like inside parts releases a strong perfume. The flower spends all her beauty in one night; by morning, she is ragged and limp. I was there. Last night, under the full moon one bloomed on the patio below my window. It was everything fresh, new, and fleeting. It was the debutante at her first ball, the wedding, and the wedding night. This morning, to my surprise she was fading but was not completely gone. By noon she was dead. What glory and tragedy to live a lifetime in one magical night!

The fleeting nature of these plants encourages me to be single-minded. I cannot be stopped. I will eat tomatoes three meals a day, troll the river banks for wild fiddle heads, and continue to search for my very own morel spot. And should I be privileged to see another cereus bloom, I will stay in the dark watching and wordless.