ingredients

—a variable handful of true morels, better if organic and locally foraged, one big one for every member of the camp

—a bulb of garlic, again one for everybody

—your choice of oil, enough to clog a cow

directions

—wander out and set up camp amongst the cottonwoods and quaking aspens, preferably after the monsoon rains; forage the fungi early, early

—wait till drop of night; have your quaint campfire already high with wild roaring; don’t let it dwindle nor jump nor dim

—gather round, morels on standby, with your garlic bulbs in hand, and begin to peel them, to ignite that breath

—and once your bulbs are cloves, raw and sticky, go ahead, go start to stuff them into your respective morels

—and do it generously

—no, not like that, not stuffed into those gutted middles

—the sides, look at the sides, those chasmic stripes, those squiggly little divots, stuff the cloves in there

—yes, one after the other, don’t stop, don’t stop

—don’t stop, not even when you realize that there shouldn’t be that much room still left

—that you’re already running out of garlic and that—oh what the fuck the mushrooms remain the same, the exact same as when you foraged them except

—except that maybe that isn’t true

—maybe they’re fuller, heartier, bigger

—bigger and yet you cannot stop yourself

—not even when you come to terms with that strange connection between the true morels and the quaking aspen trees

—the eyes

—the squiggly little divots; the black, unblinking eyes

—feed feed feed

—stuff and stuff and fill

—and don’t let the fuel stray from the fire; no, take a second to let the oil splash its skin

—that, and then douse your skin

—we got to make sure you cook right, don’t we?