Magic Mushroom Seasoning

This post to be filed under: Asian Foods I Grew Up With and Never Questioned the Provenance or Chemical Composition Of Until Very Recently. (Should come right after Haw Flakes).

Somewhere in the mid-to-late-80s, my Vietnamese mother caught on to the evils of Monosodium Glutamate. It was clear that MSG had to go, but there seemed to be no adequate substitute. Regular salt didn't have that extra little je ne sais quoi, the quoi now rapturously popularized as umami or the Fifth Taste. Soy sauce had that added depth but could sometimes be overpowering in both color and taste.  Nuoc mam, or fish sauce, had a pungency that required it to be used only sparingly.


Infinitely resourceful and a woman of great cunning, Mrs. Thao, as she is known in certain milieus, investigated the back alleys of Chinatown and penetrated the fluorescent obscurantism of Japantown's mini-malls.

Her golden discovery was this: Natural Mushroom Seasoning, Alternative Substitute for MSG and Chicken Essence.

For years I watched her sprinkle the tiny, tawny pellets into soups and stir-fries. After I moved out, she would always give me a jar of what I came to call the "magic mushroom seasoning." I never saw the original packaging. The mysterious substance would appear in old containers that once housed western spices and condiments with "mushroom seasoning" scrawled in my mother's singularly illegible handwriting on paper scraps scotch-taped around their middles or to their lids.


Then in my mom's spice cupboard I found this McCormick Family Size parsley container, with a printed label version of MUSHROOM SEASONING affixed cunningly, ransom-letter style, below the now-misleading brand name and just above "flakes," so as to suggest an entirely new product: McCormick Mushroom Seasoning Flakes (Perejil Picado). The unsuspecting eye would think this was just another regular seasoning, to be found innocuously in the Safeway spice aisle between Marjoram and Paprika.


One day recently, I finally cornered her. "Mom," I said. "I'm over thirty years old. A grown woman. Kind of. I think it's time I knew what this so-called mushroom seasoning really is and how to procure it myself."

She looked at me for a few seconds. "I don't remember where I got it. Somewhere on Clement St. probably."

I stared back at her, mind working. "It's MSG isn't it? I knew it. If it is, I can handle it. I promise. I won't tell the others."

Wordlessly, Mrs. Thao turned her back on me and walked into the pantry. She squatted to the floor and moved aside a 10 lb sack of rice. A flurry of plastic grocery bags, pocket packs of Kleenex, a box of expired Advil Cold & Sinus, and bags of green tea leaves and dehydrated black mushrooms flew past her head and landed at my feet. Finally, I heard the heavy rustle of thick foil packaging.

Hair tousled around her head like a floating bird's nest, my mother handed me that which I coveted: the original packaging of the now infamous magic mushroom seasoning:

A fascinating glut of information confronted me. My eye knew not which path to follow first. Buddhist swastikas, the regally pale daikon, the triple-decker Chinese-English-Vietnamese product name. From whence did it originate? What did the slightly ominous "SETSCO Test No (Chinese characters): W2136001" mean? Was this an experimental product, not yet legal on the U.S. market? Or did "GENERATION II" mean second generation, so more advanced and more healthful and tastier than the original incarnation? "No M.S.G.," "Cholesterol FREE," 0% of something in Chinese probably bad like MSG or cholesterol, the yellow triangle in the upper left corner assured me. I was informed that there were both calcium & Vitamin B lingering in this salty dust. And plus or minus 400 g of it in one package. But what kind of mushrooms were in this "mushroom" seasoning? Were those shitakes? What were all those other vegetables doing in the photo? Had they been involved in the flavoring too?

More of the mystery unraveled across the back of the package.

Here I learned of the technological prowess that had gone into developing this super seasoning:

"Using modern technology and special technique of extracting the relevant ingredients from mushroom, we are able now to enjoy the natural seasoning tasting as a substitute to MSG."

And finally, what I most burned to know--the ingredients:

Mushroom powder, Salt, Mushroom extract, Vitamin B, Calcium.

But far from resolving the mystery, this list only opened the door onto another, more disturbing, labyrinth, like a sparkling David Bowie beckoning me ever deeper. For not only were these just the "Main ingredients," suggesting that there were untold numbers of minor players left uncredited, but even more importantly, the kind of mushroom was not specified. And why did the mushroom have to be acted upon by "modern technology and special technique" to be divided into "powder" and "extract," leaving some other mushroom parts unaccounted for? Why had Vitamin B and calcium been deemed the most appropriate nutritional supplements?

I knew more answers would be found with the product's manufacturer, but even this avenue of inquiry led to a cipher wrapped in a riddle. . . all covered in secret sauce. My magic mushroom seasoning was a Product of Singapore, packed by Po Lo Ku Trading company, which also seemed to be in Singapore. But then there was also this other entity, HSinwell Co., Ltd, which seemed to belong to the next line of all-caps: TAIPEI TAIWAN. But then what was this "Vegetalk Food Supplies Pte Ltd (Singapore)" listed at the very bottom? I figured that "Ltd" was "limited" but what was "Pte"?

I should never have opened this Pandora's Box. My mother had tried to protect me. My head spun and I felt faint. The words swirled around my head in a terrible hallucinogenic cloud. Everything took on a deep purple tinge. To steady myself, I took a metal top out of my pocket and watched it spin madly on the table, reassuring myself of the reality of the situation. It wobbled and fell, and I knew there was yet another level of information to be mined. 

The Internet took me by the hand and led me to the site of one Po Lo Ku. It turned out to be a registered trademark of the Hsin Sui Industry Co., a Taiwanese company (remember the "HSinwell Co., Ltd" on the packaging? Close enough...). The Singapore connection is through the exporter, Vegetalk Food Supplies Pte Ltd ("Pte" stands for Private, as in the very VIP exclusive sounding "Vegetalk Food Supplies Private Limited"). Incidentally, the Vegetalk website has an amazing tiled menu that features tiny vegetables that slide into view when your mouse passes over them (the radicchio and bok choy are my favorites).

Back on the Poloku website, an October 2007 press release announcing the introduction of its mushroom seasoning into India's markets offered some illuminating highlights. Company sales manager Hung-Te Sheu touts the texture of what seems to be their star product as superior to mere mushroom powders, boasting:

"The mushroom seasoning sold in the granulated form is unlike the powder form that gets soogy due to the humidity in India. The mushroom seasoning can be exposed to air for about five days and yet remains crisp." 

Through my various researches I was further able to ascertain that the mushrooms used are in fact shitake, though of a "special breed":

"The company is delivering a special breed shitake mushrooms into concentrated dices acting as a replacement to aginomoto." 

"Aginomoto" is a charming synonym for MSG. I also learned that the mushroom intensity can be varied according to desire:

"We make client-based mushroom seasoning. Some clients demand more mushroom content while other's want less. We are involved in B2C (Business to client) so far." 

If there remains a single person who is unconvinced of the superiority of mushroom seasoning to aginomoto/MSG, here is Hung-Te's further testimony:

"You feel thirsty after consuming MSG products but after using the mushroom seasoning in their food, customers have given the feedback that they do not feel thirsty." 

The press release leaves us with a final endorsement of the magical allure of their seasoning:

"Poloku mushroom seasoning has thus been able to retain the original sweetness and freshness of the mushroom and gives the most alluring taste if blended with the richness of one's food."

I hadn't ever considered the sweetness of mushrooms, but perhaps that was the secret to the seasoning's textured flavor, an almost supersensory sweetness underpinning the savory. After returning from down the rabbit hole, I realize it looks the same, tastes the same, may still have the same amount of unknown harmful chemicals. I continue to sprinkle my soups and stir-fries with my magic mushroom seasoning. Am I persisting in dangerous ignorance or have I reached the practical limits of my knowledge about the origins of my food and acting as best I can considering what I have learned? Or should we stop talking about mushroom seasoning and just enjoy it, in the spirit of Jonathan Richman when he sings:

"He gave us the wine to taste
not to talk about it
He gave us the wine to taste
and not to discuss
so let's taste it, let's taste it
don't criticize it and waste it"

The Morel of the Story

Ever since I met the mushroom man Phil Ross at last month's Dinner Discussion, I've had mushrooms on the brain. I've been lurking around the Far West Fungi stand at farmers' markets, wanting so badly to get my grubby hands on some meaty morels, but not quite ready to pay the $24/lb price. And so for the past few weeks I've contented myself with the more affordable oyster and shitake mushrooms.

Never in my wildest foraging dreams did I imagine what lay in wait when I agreed to a last minute adventure up to Ashland, Oregon with my feral friend Neep Dandelion. The days were meandering and improvised--setting out in the late morning from friends' magical tree-house cabin, wandering in and out of the Ashland Food Co-op on a regular basis, stopping for a midday espresso or to contemplate a ginkgo tree, finding an unexpected treasure at one of the town's several used bookstores, placing a rock gingerly atop a river-dwelling cairn.


On one such day, which turned out to be a fateful one, we decided after bicycling around town more or less aimlessly to take a "real" bike ride. "Real" turned out to mean the hardest ride of my life. Part of it may have been that I hadn't been expecting to embark on a 28-mile (roundtrip) journey, twelve of them constituting a steady uphill climb, and so set out with a half-swilled gingerade kombucha, a half-filled water bottle, a stomach fueled by three sad sticks of marinated tofu and bean sprout salad, and a canvas bag of random sundries swinging clumsily from my shoulders.

The two miles out of Ashland led into increasingly rural country, with silky cows, deer, and sheep grazing on waving grasses shaded by oak trees and a creek babbling sleepily alongside us. My heart sighed in pastoral contentment. But then we entered the winding incline of Dead Indian Highway, and by the Mile 6 marker the sun's mad beating against my brow had caused me to fling my sweaty helmet off my head and fasten it onto my bag's thick straps, the bag itself clinging clammily to my hot back like a wailing papoose. The kombucha was long gone and the plastic-flavored water was dwindling dangerously.

Still, we kept on, turning off the main highway up an even steeper road ("Oh!" my legs and lungs groaned, while my pride kept them mute) in search of our destination: an alpine forest once inhabited by grizzlies. My stamina began to wane, and Neep would wait while I walked my bike awhile and stretched. At one point, he disappeared around a bend and then altogether. He had hopped off his bike to take a dip in a creek, leaving it in plain sight where I would surely see it and then join him. But it was on the left side of the road, while I pedaled painfully and slowly up the right side, my eyes fixed determinedly on the dirt directly before me.

Upwards and onwards I forced my body, trying to catch up to him (I thought) and wondering why I wasn't crying from fatigue and frustrated muscles, then deciding it was because there was no one there to see and pity my private ordeal. I would lay the bike down when I hit my limit and half collapse onto my back in the loose roadside gravel, looking up into the trees and sky for tranquility, stretching a bit until I got another small burst of energy to keep on. The view grew more breathtaking even as my own breaths became harder to take.


I knew that as feral and errant as my friend was, he wouldn't leave me alone for such a long time, so I imagined he had reached the trailhead to the mountain summit and had fallen asleep while waiting for me. The road became narrower and muddy, and the old-growth fir trees loomed more darkly around me, lit up here and there by gray-green moss and mustard-yellow lichen. The air grew colder, and there were occasional patches of snow stretched upon matted piles of dead pine needles. I thought of other times I had kept going through hunger, exhaustion, and raw pain and reminded myself to be tough.


I had downshifted into bare survival mode, eyes glazed, mind numb, body hunched over the handlebars, when I heard a commotion behind me. Neep Dandelion! Eyes wild, whiskers waggling, hands waving: "There you are!" We spilled out our stories in disbelief and relief, agreeing that there was no way we would have kept going so high up the mountain had we been together to talk ourselves out of it, that it was much farther than we had anticipated, that we had run out of water and now what should we---but wait!

Look!

What?

Morel!

What?

That's a morel!

A morel? Really?

And he ran over to crouch by the burnt-brown beauty that was poking itself out so frankly among blades of grass and soggy fallen pine cones. A deep euphoria gathered and swelled in me as my eye traveled over its sturdy, almost rubbery form, in and out of its exquisite nooks and crannies.

Where there is one morel, there most surely are others, and as our eyes became attuned to the tell-tale craggy cone shapes, we spotted more and more along the roadside. Like the proverbial woman in the wheelchair whose ailment gets miraculously blessed away by the evangelical preacher, I jumped up and down in instantaneous rapture, all thoughts of dehydration and total-body meltdown dissolved under the whitewater force of my morel mania. Whooooohoooo!

Using a stick and a plastic fork saved from our co-op snack, we poked the prized mushrooms from their root-like mycelia (to let new ones spring back up for other lucky pilgrims to find), working our way steadily uphill, tossing what began to pile up as pounds, yes pounds, of morels into my canvas bag (and now was I finally glad that I had schlepped it all the way up there). We celebrated the boon by splitting our last remaining bit of sustenance, a juicy navel orange that had been lying at the bottom of my now-magical bag. After reaching the summit trailhead, we considered hiking another mile to the peak, elevation 5,922 feet, but decided that this monster lode of morels had been the real summit after all and turned back for home.

The downhill ride was windy-cold but easy on the legs, and it wasn't long before we rushed into the tree-house cabin to share our amazing discovery with our hosts and their resident flaxen-haired forest sprite, a mischievous fellow whose preferred garb is a compact pair of tan Carhartt overalls with pale green patches on the knees.

They were as excited as we were, and over the next few days, we proceeded to have morels at every meal:

- morels fried in bacon fat
- morels sauteed in butter with asparagus and scalloped potatoes
- morels scrambled with eggs and bacon
- morels dry fried with salt
- morels scrambled with eggs and potatoes

[then back to S.F. with the last batch]

- morels on focaccia-bread toaster-oven pizza
- morels dry fried with salt (again)
- morels minced into bucatini pasta with basil, capers, and parmesan


There were ants, and who knows what else, hiding out in the labyrinthine gnome hats and hollow stems of the mushrooms, and though we tapped each morel against the cutting board several times to oust its feisty inhabitants, a few gritty bites at each meal told me I was getting a little extra protein with my fungi.

I had hoped this excessive bounty would so saturate me in the taste and texture of the forest floor as to purge what might be a hard-to-satisfy craving, expensive in terms of money or time, not to mention the limits of geography and season. And I know that there is no repeating that providential moment when nature extended its hand with a gift that revived me at the end of one of my most grueling physical experiences in recent memory. But oh, the morels have unleashed the forager's hunger for more. I must have more morels, more morels a must, morels more more, more more more!

As though to taunt me when I changed my wild foods calendar from May to June, the page went from ramps to (gasp!) morels.



There was a time when I thought that kale gave the highest of highs. Then I went on a morel bender and shall never be the same again. But this is a blog about vegetables. The third kingdom, that range of edibles wedged mysteriously between the animal and plant worlds, must remain an occasional guest in our civilized society of carotenes and chlorophyll, where seeds and roots propagate life in predictable byways revealed in the daylight of rational science. Let us leave the spores and mycelia, the hyphae and hallucinogens, where they lie in the shadowy realms beyond even that of the weird vegetable. Let The Great Morel Home Page take up the burden that we lay down here.

Kombucha, baby!

Weird? Certainly. Vegetable? Who knows. Kombucha is one strange brew, and a most divisive foodstuff. Some of my kindred food spirits (Katrina included) have been known to cringe, mime dry-heaving, and screech "Gross!" at the mere mention of the beverage. Even McSweeney's (a place where weirdness is usually warmly embraced) published this less-than-favorable report. But how can I blame folks when I freely admit that kombucha's snotty globules are something you have to get used to, and took the adjacent photo of my most recently acquired culture looking heart-like in its jar of juices?

In an effort to familiarize the skeptical, wary, and just plain averse, Kombucha is:

1) undeniably delicious (if you're like me and used to drink vinegar behind closed pantry doors as a child);

2) a mystical elixir of ancient origin that's now sold for close to $4 a bottle, its packaging often sporting claims that it may ward off cancer, keep migraines at bay, regulate digestion, and add gloss to hair;

3) sweetened green or black tea that's been fermented (meaning yeast has converted its sugars to carbonation and alcohol) and contains a low amount of sugar, live strands of bacterial culture, and a trace amount of booze.

So the culture – also called a mother, mushroom, or bladder (eew!) – that performs the fermentation is a yeast/bacteria hybrid (anyone out there want to explain the science behind this?), and resembles a gelatinous, whitish mushroom cap. The one in the photo above was folded into a jar for transport, but they're typically nearly-perfect circles with the circumference of the jar where they were birthed. Be not afraid, dear reader!

To brew the brew, you pour a large amount of tea with sugar dissolved in it into a large glass jar (mine's a 1 gallon cookie jar from IKEA). Add the culture, which will either float atop or hover in the midst of the liquid. This process can be referred to as "feeding the mother," and before you get all grossed out, note that this is also the name of a necessary step in the creation of yeasty sourdough bread–a markedly friendly, universally beloved food staple. When feeding my mother, I use mango-scented black tea and add slices of fresh ginger.

Then you cover your jar with cheesecloth or dry paper towels, secure the breathable lid with a rubber band, and let the culture devour those sugars for 7 to 12 days. During that time, the liquid will turn pleasantly sour and bubbly, and your mother will grow a new layer – about 1/8th of an inch thick – called a baby, scobie, or starter. This newly-generated culture will either be attached to the top of the matriarch or floating freely above it. If necessary, remove the mother from the jar and gently peel the progeny from her. (My friend Travis, a staunch anti-kombucha activist, deems this part "skinning the baby.")

At this point, you have a little culture to pass on to a friend, and a jar full of drinkable kombucha lorded over by your robust mother. Ladle most of the liquid into a serving vessel, blend with juice if desired, refrigerate, and quaff whenever the mood strikes. (Feeling down? Particularly toxic? Eager for a cleanse?) Meanwhile, your mother is ready to start all over again, so you best get a brewin' if you want to feed your newly-formed addiction to the acidic tincture.

Here's a link to a decent site explaining the brewing process in detail.

**For those of you still reading, I just delivered a baby, now sleeping soundly in my fridge, and will gladly give it – for free! – to the first inquiring adopter.**