I grew up in a family of mushroom foragers. It truly was a thing in the Basque Country – still is. Everyone I knew did it. Does it. Watched the weather for days, hiked for miles, returned furiously frustrated at the lack of funghi, always kept an ear open for by-passer conversations to see if they found something…. It is a big thing. I simply followed along. I walked behind my dad with a wooden stick in hand and wicker basket in arm. I really couldn’t tell you much about the different varieties but I remember the gigantic boletus that we sometimes found and the edulis. There were other varieties, their English names escape me. Gibelurdinak, in Basque. There was a level of excitement and even tension about the entire event that I loved, not to mention the beautiful hikes in the forest and time spent with family. It is always with the passing of time that I can appreciate how those days have shaped me.

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