ANUFRIYEVO, Far North -- Mushroom-gathering, as millions of Russians know, is one of life's simple pleasures -- provided you know a thing or two.
Like how to survive it.
Here in the cool, pristine forests of the Russian north, where mushroom season was at its peak in September, an eagle-eyed gatherer such as Ludmilla Gromova is happy to dispense critical advice that might keep a novice alive and healthy.
"No, no, not those; those are death caps," she said, squinting at a cluster of brilliant red-and-white-speckled fungi -- absolutely lethal if eaten -- that were prettily arrayed along a stream bank. The chastened novice recoiled in terror.
"Look at that one -- that's a coral milky cap. That one's fine," Gromova said, stooping to snip her own quarry -- a beefy white mushroom, the noblest fungus of them all.
Poets and peasants, travelers and philosophers -- all have raved about the abundance of mushrooms in the woods here and the timeless joy that Russians take in gathering them. Beloved by rank amateurs and seasoned pros alike, mushroom-gathering may be Russia's baseball -- a stately, slow, serene ritual that peaks as summer fades into fall, not just a pastime but a passion.
From grandparents and parents, Russians as young as toddlers absorb the ABCs of mushrooming. They learn mushrooms should be cut off at the stem with a knife, never pulled from the ground (it destroys the roots). They learn to distinguish the "noble" mushrooms -- the regal white; the milk mushroom, delicious when dried and salted; the orange-capped boletus, known in Russian as "under-the-aspens," which is so plentiful in parts of Siberia that people just snip the caps and leave the stems; and the saffron milk cap, with its downy umbrella top and dreamy aroma.
And they learn how to avoid bad mushrooms, which can sicken and even kill.
So far this year, about 500 Russians reportedly have become seriously ill from eating mushrooms, and 55 of them have died. Some of them were novices, others more experienced mushroom-gatherers tricked by toxic fungi masquerading as edible ones. (Mushrooms can change their appearance in very dry or wet weather.)
Still, this is not enough to stop determined mushroom hunters. Most simply stick to a few varieties they know well. "You have to know what kinds of mushrooms grow under which trees," said Gromova, 55, a farmer whose village of Anufrievo, 500 miles north of Moscow, is surrounded by lovely rolling fields and forests.
She first went hunting for mushrooms as a girl in summer camp and goes about it with deft efficiency, unbothered by the forest cobwebs that drape her head and face, oblivious to the prickles that sting her fingers and the mushroom juices that stain her hands pink.
"If you find a white mushroom, don't hurry; look around. There may be more nearby," she said. "White mushrooms are the best; they're the most valuable ones. You can trade them for bread or oil or meat. They're thick and concentrated, delicious. The problem is that the worms like them too and eat them first.
"The air is good," she said, warming to her subject. "You can relax in the woods, forget about work and just search for mushrooms. You can rest your soul and just take it easy."
For generations Russians have set off into the forests with their mushroom baskets, not only to breathe the clean air but to make sure they had enough protein to make it through the harsh winter. Dried and salted or marinated in jars, mushrooms would last a Russian peasant right through February and March, when supplies of root vegetables and meat had run low.
They are still popular staples in Russian homes and restaurants, fried with butter and sour cream or potatoes, made into a soup with milk, or baked in a folded pie. Many Russians swear that nothing goes better with vodka than a good jar of pickled mushrooms.
There is, however, one thing Russians never do with mushrooms -- eat them raw, as an American might in a salad. "I think it's disgusting," said Irina Makarova, 40, a teacher and translator. "Not exactly disgusting, but it's not in our tradition."
Like how to survive it.
Here in the cool, pristine forests of the Russian north, where mushroom season was at its peak in September, an eagle-eyed gatherer such as Ludmilla Gromova is happy to dispense critical advice that might keep a novice alive and healthy.
"No, no, not those; those are death caps," she said, squinting at a cluster of brilliant red-and-white-speckled fungi -- absolutely lethal if eaten -- that were prettily arrayed along a stream bank. The chastened novice recoiled in terror.
"Look at that one -- that's a coral milky cap. That one's fine," Gromova said, stooping to snip her own quarry -- a beefy white mushroom, the noblest fungus of them all.
Poets and peasants, travelers and philosophers -- all have raved about the abundance of mushrooms in the woods here and the timeless joy that Russians take in gathering them. Beloved by rank amateurs and seasoned pros alike, mushroom-gathering may be Russia's baseball -- a stately, slow, serene ritual that peaks as summer fades into fall, not just a pastime but a passion.
From grandparents and parents, Russians as young as toddlers absorb the ABCs of mushrooming. They learn mushrooms should be cut off at the stem with a knife, never pulled from the ground (it destroys the roots). They learn to distinguish the "noble" mushrooms -- the regal white; the milk mushroom, delicious when dried and salted; the orange-capped boletus, known in Russian as "under-the-aspens," which is so plentiful in parts of Siberia that people just snip the caps and leave the stems; and the saffron milk cap, with its downy umbrella top and dreamy aroma.
And they learn how to avoid bad mushrooms, which can sicken and even kill.
So far this year, about 500 Russians reportedly have become seriously ill from eating mushrooms, and 55 of them have died. Some of them were novices, others more experienced mushroom-gatherers tricked by toxic fungi masquerading as edible ones. (Mushrooms can change their appearance in very dry or wet weather.)
Still, this is not enough to stop determined mushroom hunters. Most simply stick to a few varieties they know well. "You have to know what kinds of mushrooms grow under which trees," said Gromova, 55, a farmer whose village of Anufrievo, 500 miles north of Moscow, is surrounded by lovely rolling fields and forests.
She first went hunting for mushrooms as a girl in summer camp and goes about it with deft efficiency, unbothered by the forest cobwebs that drape her head and face, oblivious to the prickles that sting her fingers and the mushroom juices that stain her hands pink.
"If you find a white mushroom, don't hurry; look around. There may be more nearby," she said. "White mushrooms are the best; they're the most valuable ones. You can trade them for bread or oil or meat. They're thick and concentrated, delicious. The problem is that the worms like them too and eat them first.
"The air is good," she said, warming to her subject. "You can relax in the woods, forget about work and just search for mushrooms. You can rest your soul and just take it easy."
For generations Russians have set off into the forests with their mushroom baskets, not only to breathe the clean air but to make sure they had enough protein to make it through the harsh winter. Dried and salted or marinated in jars, mushrooms would last a Russian peasant right through February and March, when supplies of root vegetables and meat had run low.
They are still popular staples in Russian homes and restaurants, fried with butter and sour cream or potatoes, made into a soup with milk, or baked in a folded pie. Many Russians swear that nothing goes better with vodka than a good jar of pickled mushrooms.
There is, however, one thing Russians never do with mushrooms -- eat them raw, as an American might in a salad. "I think it's disgusting," said Irina Makarova, 40, a teacher and translator. "Not exactly disgusting, but it's not in our tradition."
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