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Sunday, May 5, 2013

A Morel Tale by John von Daler

If you think the Swedish forests are full of light-haired, cavorting Vikings with fiddles,
then think again:
Sweden is a meditation on miles and miles of woodland, straight, never-ending roads and the occasional moose. But to the trained eye, underneath the trunk of a storm-felled
tree or on a little crest beside a buried grey stone, something like a calf-brain with the color of California redwood protrudes shyly from the untilled soil. This is the morel, the king of Nordic fungi. While the unapproving Swedes watch American Idol inside burgundy farmhouses, the enterprising Danes roam their forests, dreaming of slow-baked lamb, garlic, red wine and morels, morels, morels.

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