Mushrooms!

A national obsession!

I am not a mushroom lover, which seems to make me a freak of nature wherever I go, but no place more than in Slovakia: the Land of the Huby! Whatever you may think of my lack of love for mushrooms, I maintain that it is not, in fact, a character flaw; it’s just a taste and texture thing. And, yes, I have tried them since I became an adult; and no, I still don’t like them. So there! 

  

This entire nation is obsessed with mushrooms and no description of time spent in Slovakia would be complete without addressing this issue. Mushroom picking is a national pastime and an invitation to go along on this beloved outing is a sure sign of friendship and hospitality. I find it quite endearing to watch the group of burly, middle-aged men who seem to gather many an evening  in Piki’s bar, to drink and smoke the night away, take down the book entitled, Huby (Mushrooms), from where it sits on the bar and lovingly thumb through it with gentle exclamations that even I understand with my limited Slovak- “beautiful”, “fantastic”, “wonderful”- kissing their fingers to their lips, frankly, as if they were looking at pictures of women fitting the same descriptions. 

The famed podpinky type in their natural habitat.

Huby might also be the subject of a lengthy Sunday dinner conversation, with descriptions made of those spotted on a walk in the woods, and my camera produced for all to gather round in order to participate in identifying and celebrating the attributes of the documented sighting, while I fondly watch, sipping my wine and thinking how much I love these people. How can you not love a people who grow weak in the collective knees over fungus?

Everyone has a mushroom-picking basket for the gathering and transportation of the coveted huby and (I think) for showing off a bit. Heads will turn when a man walks by the tram stop with an impressive basket of beautiful mushrooms. Some have even been heard to remark that he probably put something in the bottom to just make it look like he had more than he really did, but I think they are just jealous. Drivers of cars will take their eyes off the road, exclaiming, “Huby, huby, huby!” as they pass a pedestrian with a basket alongside the road, causing passengers to emit a sigh of relief when their attention finally returns to driving. Luckily, I like walking in the woods, and looking for mushrooms is easier than looking for the lost cows I spent much of my childhood searching for (they remain stationary, for one thing). So I am happy to go along for the ride and the walk. 

My first real mushroom picking adventure was about three weeks ago and our hosts were very kind when I came up with my offerings; I had no idea what I was looking for. “Very nice, but no,” said my smiling friend in English. Finally, I caught on and I was actually quite proud to have found five good ones to contribute to the cause. People here are raised knowing what to look for, so I have no fear of choosing something poisonous, despite my family’s objections from back home. I figure more people in America have died from eating tainted hamburger than have died in Slovakia from eating dangerous mushrooms, but I admit I don’t have the research to back that up. 

"Here, little Huby, Huby Huby!"

George got a good one!

 George and I were given half the “take” when we got home and the next day we took some to my sister-in-law as a gift. We carried them carefully in a plastic bag in the top of our backpack to keep them from being crushed. Sadly, I realized too late that we had missed our opportunity- by not taking the market basket  kept by the door of our flat for just such occasions- to parade our treasures on the bus and through the streets, thus raising our esteem in the eyes of our Slovak neighbors. Maybe next time!