If you can bare with me, I have a chantrelle tale to share (some times us old dogs simply have too many tales and wax way to verbose, eh?)
I was working in the Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness out of Gardiner, MT (spent 13 seasons pounding that country before moving southward to the Teton Wilderness, marvelous in deed!). I was working with a volunteer from Finland or Sweden, can't remember which (the other pitfall of being an old dog
) We would be clearing trail or riding back to camp after the days work and Pers would hop of his horse, pluck a bunch of mushrooms, sniff them, and exclaim "I'm sure these are Chantrelles! They are eatable and very taste!".
In fact, he said, we have a song about them in Sweden (Finland) and would burst into the Chantrelle Song "La Dee Lomphda Da Dee Ommp La!" (or something to that affect in his native language and my hapless rendition, forgive me.)
I told Pers that we had a song too. It was about some fellow who ate a bunch of mushrooms thinking they were eatable...they weren't. But Pers was insistent they had to be Chantrelles and picked a bread bag of them to give it a go. I told him that there were two conditions for him to eat them. First, he needed to bequeath me his fine waxed Filson tin cruiser jacket that I admired, and secondly, after he ate the mushrooms he need to sleep bent over so that he would be easy to sling over a mule to pack out the next day.
Lo and behold, the next morning Pers was alive, well, and ready for more. And since such was the case, I was also persuaded to partake of picking, cleaning, and sautéing the next batch of delicious Chantrelles
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