Joining the Fungal Network

As the summer of 2020 heated up, I found myself in need of two things: a new hobby to beat the quarantine tedium and a shield from the constant stream of division that now populated my Facebook feed.

Mushrooms, I found, were the answer to both.

Though I’m no botanist, I can confidently identify—and, sometimes, eat—a fair few of the diverse plant species populating the Southern Appalachians. Mushrooms, though, had always intimidated me. There are 5.1 million fungal species worldwide. How could one even begin to learn their names? And what happens if you get it wrong? They all looked at least a little bit poisonous to me.

But they also all looked at least a little bit tasty. Figuring out how to figure out which mushrooms to chew and which to eschew seemed like the perfect pandemic challenge. 

As I came to this conclusion, I remembered a mushroom enthusiast I’d once met who said that mushroom-oriented Facebook groups were the best way for a newbie to get started. I rankled a bit at putting my natural history education in the hands of Big Tech, but decided to give it a try.

Turns out, the platform hosts an entire network of extremely specific mushroom groups. There’s an identification group (with 202,000 members!) but it’s for IDs only—thou shalt not seek cooking or cultivation advice there. There’s a mushroom discussion group—its page title includes the words “NOT an Identification Group”—and if you want to talk cultivation, cookery, photography, or if you have an emergency ID request for possible poisoning, there’s a group for that, too. I joined a bunch of them, and just like magic the angry political posts and inflammatory news stories that had been flooding my Facebook feed disappeared. Instead, I scrolled through post after post of fungal finds from all over the world and robust discussion on the finer points of biology and edibility. 

I went outside and started taking photos of my own. I learned that the giant shelf mushrooms growing on the aged maple tree across from my house were Ganoderma applantum and that the collection of white oval protrusions I found erupting along the sidewalk were in fact a choice edible known as Coprinus comatus, or shaggy mane. I picked them, but before I worked up the courage to start cooking they disintegrated into an inky mess. 

Next time would be different. Armed with my phone, a couple of paper shopping bags, a pocketknife and a nearly useless mini field guide, I ventured into the vacant lot a couple doors down. At first, it seemed like a bust. There were plenty of brambles, but not really any mushrooms—until I spotted a towering snag covered in vines and an enormous collection of plump, brown balls. 

The first mushrooms I spotted were so far above my head I’d need a bucket truck to reach them. But when I looked down, I saw that they were all over, colonizing the remnants of a nearly decayed log at my feet. I snapped a photo, grabbed a sample, placed it in my bag, and asked my newfound online community what they thought it might be. The swift consensus was that I’d found a delicious edible puffball called Apioperdon pyriform. Cook it up in butter and garlic, the folks on the mushroom discussion page assured me, and I wouldn’t regret it. Just remember to try a small batch the first time, they said, because some people are sensitive to wild mushrooms.

By this point, I’d spent enough time reading mushroom posts that my fear of dying a painful and preventable fungi-induced death had dissipated. There aren’t many mushrooms poisonous enough to cause that severe a reaction, I learned, and it’s easy enough to distinguish the ones that are from any look-alikes. 

I sliced the puffballs thin and sautéed them with garlic and butter as instructed, spooning out small servings for myself and my husband. They tasted similar to mushrooms I’d had before, but with a deeper, more complex flavor. Hard to believe, I thought, that this stuff has been growing around me all this time. 

I spent the rest of autumn burrowing deeper into the world of mycology. Everywhere I went, I looked for mushrooms. When I found one, I snapped a photo and uploaded it to the ID page. I ordered a field guide through my local bookstore, thoroughly reading each entry every time I got a new ID confirmation. My confidence and enthusiasm were growing daily—until winter’s arrival brought an abrupt end to mushroom season. 

But the seasons turn in time. As I write this, it’s late summer of 2021, and the mushrooms are back. Just last week, I hiked up a favorite trail and came away with a new find, a bizarre white growth called coral-tooth fungus, or Hericium coralloides if you want to speak scientist. Its name is rather unappetizing, but I’m here to tell you that it’s actually quite delicious. Fry it up in garlic and butter, and it tastes like sour cream.