Morel to the story
It's that time of year again. Mushroom hunting season. Mushrooming is like hunting in that if your father did it, you'll likely do it too. If not, you don't understand the point as my wife can attest. But, since generations of our family have scoured the spring humus in woods and fence rows for bottle caps, yellow, gray and black sponges.......I continue the tradition with my kids. We've been lucky in that a few times they've come to us here in town.
We have a few locations on old family farms that prove profitable for mushroom hunting. If there is such a thing as urban legend in the country (what would that be called? rural legend?) it is the concept that you'll find mushrooms hiding under may apples. Better luck looking under apple trees and decaying elms.
But here's my little tale. With all due respect to my dad, he can come up with some crazy inventions. Now, since craziness runs on both sides of my family vs. only one on his side, I am destined to go nuts. No doubt about it. Back to my tale. Since morels mystify growers (there are no morel farms), my dad thought he might try to grow them himself, so, one spring day we arrived at my folks to find a series of small cloth tents pitched around the yard over some yellow sponge that had sprung in their woods. Dad collected the soil, capturing the spores, and put the little guys through summer, fall and winter (freezer) in hopes to get them to spring forth in spring (about 60 days later). He placed the birthing soil in totes in a dark, cool bedroom of their house and waited.
That's when I stepped in. I had some fake morels made out of clay that I placed in the totes one time on a visit and left quietly not saying a word. For a few seconds early the next morning my dad thought he had a breakthrough. Then he was mad......almost as mad as I was when he backed into my mustang. Moral of the story? When in a family of jokers and pranksters-doubt all things.