may 10, 2022
mushrooms of many names
dalia suszko
It is a typical Monday morning in late August. I am struggling to keep up with my grandmother and her two dogs as we make our way through the dense forest. They know this path much better than I do, after years of taking the same route on their morning stroll. Only five minutes from the house and we are already in the thick of it, having to force ourselves through bushes and tall grass to continue. There are no hiking trails here, only the wild overgrowth that has been thriving for centuries. In the village of Borków, the citizens are merely guests in a world of pine and oak.
At the time, I found the walks in the woods to be bothersome. We only had so much of our summer break left to enjoy in Poland, and it felt wasteful not to spend it more productively. We could be touring historical cities or reuniting with distant family members, but instead, we were trudging through bug ridden foliage in the blistering heat. But this year was different. A summer that should have been spent in an overseas countryside was endured quarantining in the Chicago suburbs. There is nothing “wild” about this place. The bushes are neatly trimmed before they can overtake the lawn, and the trees are more decorative than awe-inspiring. Wilderness is not welcomed like it is in Borków. I find myself missing that very wilderness as I watch a clump of invasive mushrooms get spritzed with pesticide.
In the woods, my grandmother carefully scans the forest floor, peering under every rock and stump. Finally, something catches her eye, and she motions for me to come closer. I watch her scoop up a clump of mushrooms and plop it in the basket we've been carrying. She calls them rydze; round, little, orange things that are the most prized in all of Poland. They are extremely versatile and can be cooked into a sauce, pickled, dried, or even fried. At least, that's what I've been told. I hate mushrooms. I wrinkle my nose at the sight of them, and my grandmother laughs, declaring that I must not be Polish if I don't like mushrooms. We move on, and the search begins anew.
The Poles have a rather unique relationship with nature. In an era of capitalist development, the one thing that has remained untouched by privatization is the country's forests. The woods, maintained (but not owned) by the Ministry of Forestry, are open to any citizen to enter and utilize. Within the rule of law, of course. Cameras are stationed near forest roads to deter tree chopping and garbage dumping, practices that can land even first time offenders in jail. While the destruction of the landscape is strictly illegal, anything that can be gathered is fair game. People spend their mornings picking berries for sweet pierogi, fallen branches for kindling, and, most importantly, every mushroom imaginable.
The importance of the mushroom makes itself clear in the Polish lexicon. It is not enough to simply say “mushroom,” one must also specify the species. Is it the decadent rydze? The plentiful kurki? The toxically beautiful muchomory? Another aspect of Polish culture where the mushroom's presence cannot be avoided is the cuisine. The fungi are pickled in a fragrant vinegar-spice mixture or dried to be utilized later in the year. They are added to simmering pots of cream soup or fried alongside tender meat. They are the stars of the show when it comes to stuffing savory pierogi dumplings and cabbage-wrapped gołąbki. With the overwhelming number of recipes that call for some sort of fungus, it's no wonder that so many Poles go out of their way to pick their own mushrooms. Even those who live in urban areas make the time and effort to source some for themselves. My city-dwelling aunts and uncles light up with joy when my grandparents send them their fungal care packages.
Perhaps it is Poland's obsession with mushrooms that has allowed their natural lands to thrive. The country has some of the most unique and well-maintained environments in all of Europe, where flora and fauna thrive. The environmental protection does not just extend to areas far from the reach of urbanization, as cities are often just a jump away from the nearest wilderness. A thirty minute drive from the center of Kraków, Poland's second biggest city, will take you deep within the valleys of Ojców National Park, an experience that can't be matched in cities like Chicago. In my hometown, you can drive for hours without coming across a single stretch of wild land. The well-kept parks and trails are always within earshot of trains and police sirens. Gardens are fenced off from the public and require a seasonal pass to enter. Even the strips of dying trees on the side of the highway are cut off by barbed wire, decorated with “No Trespassing” and “Private Property” signs.
Back in the woods of Borków, I wander away from my grandmother as she digs up more mushrooms. I spot a patch of red fruit: poziomki, best described in English simply as wild strawberries. I do not think to ask my supervisor if it is alright for me to have some; I know that anything is fair game here. As I fill my own basket with the berries, I realize what is so special about this place. It is a relationship between man and nature that I have never experienced before. The concept of public resources in exchange for respect and care is something I hadn't considered until then. How lovely it is to have a place, available and adored by all, from which everyone can benefit. This close proximity with nature is something I can only imagine for myself back home, in my suburban bubble.
I squint up at the noon sun. It is time to head back. My grandmother whistles for the dogs, who immediately go bounding ahead of us. There's no worry of them getting lost, they know the way through the woods better than I do. In a way, it is like their second home; it is where my grandmother found them after they had been dumped here. Just like everyone else in her village, she earned her strays after they had followed her home. In the Polish countryside, even the dogs come from the forest.