Morchellas! (insert preferred onomonopia here)! The molly moocher, dryland fish, merkle, the sponge, or simply known as the morel. Only Madlib’s got more aliases. Trip up on these in the forest and consider it an edible 1849. No worries though, North Pond’s Bruce Sherman will happily pay ole’ Barry (Appleton, Minnesota’s finest) to “hunt” um down for you.
(Said in Spicoli voice) But its not just about the shrooms, dude, its about the journey, the total gnarlyness, bro!
And its true; morels kinda taste like kneepit without a solid accompaniment. But don’t bread and fry that shit. That’s remedial. Top the forest jewels with sheeps milk, ricotta-parmesan gnocchi, cinnamon and watercress and suddenly the sun, moon, and stars seem more boring than old people sex. We’d work this dish down like cherry twizzlers.
Solid grab by Kidltamae. Stay up on the Chicago Gluttons flickr group and culinary centerfold, babies. Its more controversial than the Chicago Eyeball. Oh, and never forget, the digital camera to deliciousness ratio always favors the documentarian.