When autumn arrives in its ripe abundance and melancholic decay, I like to wrap myself in my warm scarf and quiet thoughts. Like the finale of a fireworks spectacle, autumn fulfills the promise of summer with its generous harvests and brilliant colors, while reminding us of the impermanence of being and the inevitability of atrophy.
A few days ago, my friend and I went to the forest of Fontainebleau just outside of Paris for my first foray into mushroom hunting. The train dropped us off in the middle of the forest at a station without a platform or sign. Basket in hand and knives in pockets, we inhaled the cold, vegetal air and entered the early morning mist. As my close friends can attest, I have particular fascination with mushrooms–for their form, life cycle, personality, and of course delicious flavor–and had wanted to experience mushroom hunting for quite some time.
We spent the entire morning and afternoon weaving on and off the trail like two truffle pigs in search of a prize. As I am still unfamiliar with the biodiversity of Île-de-France, I was mesmerized by the sea of pink and green ferns, the muffled moss carpet, the unlikely rock formations, and splashes of strange wild flowers. I crouched with my nose centimeters away from the cool forest floor and observed everything from dew drops on spider webs to fungi on tree trunks. Lifting leaves and peaking under rotting branches, I rediscovered the childish joy of seeing and discovering something for the first time.
As we gather knowledge and habits with age, it’s natural to begin losing the magic of first time experiences. Favorite games become childish, first time flavors become mundane tastes, captivating music becomes overplayed tunes, the shiny new school bag becomes laden with assignments, the first sip of wine becomes a glass with dinner, and so on and so forth. As adults, we seem to seek out new experiences for the sake of feeling alive, be it a new sports car, bungee jumping, a voyage, or a new hair color. And in so doing, perhaps we awaken–at least momentarily–that wide eyed child we once were, in love with the brand new world around us.
My friend must have been perplexed when he saw me taking a hundred pictures of rocks and mushrooms. He asked me what I was going to do with all of these photos, and I said I enjoyed the act of capturing a good composition more than looking at the photos later. In fact, I just wanted to capture the beautiful novelty of the experience as a small artistic exercise. There are certain works of art that have never lost their initial luster despite years of acquaintance: Mozart’s Sinfonia concertante, Brancusi’s Bird in Space, Calvino’s Mr. Palomar, Bartók’s Contrasts, Canova’s Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss, Ando’s Naoshima Art Museum, Gondry’s Science of Sleep, Chagall’s Les amoureux, Corea’s Mad Hatter, the list goes on.
Amazing works of art give me conviction that we can always experience a moment with the love and curiosity of the first time. Art has the potential of capturing so convincingly this feeling of being alive that, despite years of familiarity, we can look upon them time and time again as a wide-eyed child, in awe of the new sensational limits. As a composer, I relish and cherish experiences like my first mushroom hunt, because I want to musically capture such moments when I am breath taken by reality, when I dive ever so deeply into the wonders of the mundane.
How often do I take for granted what was once new and precious? Sometimes I see an elderly couple who are in love like honeymooners after decades together, and I feel profound admiration and envy for their ever-present connection. If there is ever a day that my love of music becomes less that what it was for me in childhood, I think I would quietly quit composing. Seeing as that is incredibly unlikely, I will, for the moment, take a basket in hand and continue hunting for these moments of gratitude in reality and in art.
Risotto aux champignon sauvages
Ingredients:
250g (1.5 cups) of arborio rice
A big heap of mushroom of your choice/finding (we found mostly coulemelles and one vesse-de-loup)
2 cloves of garlic
1 large onion
20cl (1 cup) of dry white wine
10cl (1/2 cup) of crème fraîche
2 cubes bouillon of your choice
Parmesan
Parsley (or dill)
Butter
Oil (I used olive oil)
Salt & pepper
In a sauce pan, melt some butter and cook the minced garlic for 2 minutes until fragrant. Clean the mushrooms and cut them into generous strips. Toss them to the garlic butter for 3 minutes. Finely chop the parsley and add to the mushroom along with salt & pepper. Immediately remove from heat and set aside.
Bring 1L (4.25 cups) of water to a boil and add the bouillon of your choice (I used vegetable based).
Finely mince the onion. In a sauce pan, heat the olive oil and add let the onion, cooking until translucent. Add the rice and let cook for 2 minutes until likewise translucent. Add the wine and wait for it to be soaked up by the rice.
Then, ladle a scoop of the broth and stir well until the liquid is absorbed into the rice. Repeat the process ladle by ladle until all the broth is used.
Add the crème fraîche and the mushrooms and continue to cook for 2 minutes on low heat. Stir gently at this stage as the rice will be tender and the mushrooms delicate. When the rice seems well done, serve with grated parmesan and a tuft of parsley. Despite being a vegetarian dish, I find that it pairs well with dry and full bodied reds such as Bordeaux or heavier Bourgogne.
Bonne dégustation!
*TIP: If you are using a more juicy variety of mushrooms, such as girolles, you may want to first heat them in olive oil to let out the excess water. Pat dry with paper towels. They will better soak up the delicious garlic butter flavor!
