Chanterelles, I mean. Every time I go for the plural, I stumble. Yellowfoots? Yellowfeet? Yellowfooted chanterelles?
I spent Sunday at Salt Point.
We stopped in Occidental on the way and ate at Howard’s Station Cafe, where we were served by Rosie the Riveter. She had a sense of humor and sharp blue eyes. She ruled the table.
It was a good stop, because otherwise it’s 2.5 hours straight in the car, and after we’d been well English Muffin-ed and coffee-d it was just right to lean into the twists and turns of the road, listening to Smokey Robinson’s croon, all honeyed like the sunlight. And then it was Ray Charles. And Fred Astaire.
Salt Point gave it up to us, though I wasn’t sure we’d find much. It wasn’t a good season for mushrooms, I had heard from my friend Kristyn, so my expectations were low.
It was dry out there, for Salt Point. Usually at this time of year it’s like a wet terry cloth towel wrung out. It’s spongy like that too.
But this time around, it was sunny, practically dry, and that musty smell, that rich earth smell that tells me that mushrooms abound, was fainter. It’s just not a banner year. But we found what my friend said we’d find — hedgehogs, yellowfooted chanterelles, candy caps, and other fungi we couldn’t name. Enough for handmade pasta for dinner, and then some for drying, and maybe an omelette or two for each of us, in the coming week.