Gifts of the Forest After a Thunderstorm / Liu Ka-shiang | 劉克襄
Translated by Jacqueline Li
Originally published in 2019 in The Merit Times, as 小風徐行: 雷雨後 森林留下的禮物
Photo by Jessica J. Lee
Summer is here, and after the recent showers ‘shredded-chicken’ mushrooms* will be springing up in the woodlands of Monkey Mountain. In fond anticipation, I decide to hike up the ancient mountain path the next day.
Due to regular maintenance, this particular old route has fairly good drainage; the road surface often remains dry, and thus easy to walk. In small clearings by the roadside, piled with fallen leaves and dead wood, the ground is crumbling humus-rich soil. I notice on the way though that there hasn’t been much mushroom activity, except occasional sprouts of bracket or small wood-ear clusters on one or two rotting trunks.
Half an hour later I arrive at a tea shop, and sound out the owner about shredded-chicken sightings. He nods enthusiastically yet cannot quite specify any details, as if the entire forest were potential hunting ground. That said, sometimes, in days of long and continuous drizzle, one may spend a whole day without seeing even a shadow. In the same way that tanhua, or queen of the night, blooms overnight, the mushroom reaches peak maturity in a flash, wilting quickly within a day or two if it is not picked. Finding it is a matter of serendipity, and I will just have to try my luck a few more times following rain.
After a few sips of this year’s spring tea, I bid farewell to my friend and walk briskly down the mountain. Descending offers a different view, and suddenly there they are among layers of decomposed debris: three large shredded-chicken mushrooms, one of them already wilted, the others maturing with splitting caps.
The caps of the mushroom are dull tan to brown, a similar palette to the surrounding leaf litter. When I walked uphill, they must have been camouflaged. Going down changes the orientation, and the white stipes, or stems, and the split gills under the caps are now exposed. Sharp-eyed as I am, I spot them easily. Unfortunately, being out long after the rain, the caps look slightly tired. If I came in the early morning instead, and just after heavy rain, the whole mushroom would have barely bloomed, its appearance then most appealing.
The torrential rain in early spring is often accompanied by the sound of thunder; that is why shredded-chicken is also known natively as the Leigong [the Chinese god of thunder] mushroom. I have heard country folk telling the difference between the two. Leigong always grow in clusters, never singly; they are also larger in size, and can be found in mixed woods on level ground. However, when mycologists examine the DNA, they find that they are in fact the same species.
I lean forward to sniff carefully what is in front of me, and can immediately detect the wonderful aroma of shredded-chicken. In order not to pick the wrong mushroom, one must bear in mind two key features when identifying this particular fungus. The first distinction is a pointy protrusion, the umbo, at the centre of the cap, hard and dark as a mountain peak. In addition, the root-like system of hyphae goes down deep into the underground soil, and eventually links to a nest of termites, a structure unique to termite mushrooms. Most mushrooms do not have this special rooting connection.
There is a species of termite, the black-winged subterranean termite, or Odontotermes formosanus, which after mating burrows down 30 to 40 centimetres underground to build its nest, forming a habitat group. It feeds on branch and leaf debris and rotting roots and bark, and in the process, helps to decompose and transform organic matter above ground, while at the same time creating flourishing fungus gardens, or combs. In the comb, worker-termites secrete pellets of faeces to nourish the fruiting bodies of the fungus, the shredded-chicken mushrooms, which they themselves do not eat.
A fungus garden can be understood as a closed and controlled agricultural system, adjusted to a hothouse environment to provide a stable microhabitat of cultivation which is less susceptible to infection. The bigger the garden, the more abundant the growth of shredded-chicken mushrooms. Imagine that the black-winged termites might have evolved such a delicate system of agriculture tens of millions of years ago.
When soft stipes first rise up from the ground, they are always vulnerable to damage. I use my fingers to poke deeper into the soil, but soon have a faint sensation of a solid cone of earth going down and down without end. It’s difficult to imagine how the initial puny mushrooms break through the firm soil and swiftly morph into those splendid caps. I dig as far as possible, until the hyphae shrink to the stem size of enoki mushrooms. As a result, the mushrooms I dig out all have long root-like strands.
On the way out of the forest, I come upon another mushroom, growing on a slope in a similarly loose humus condition. Like the previously picked ones, the fresh and bright stipe is as plump as a palm. Although I have seen shredded-chicken mushrooms before, today’s encounter is particularly heartening. I always believe that I will discover something in a deep and lush forest.
Thinking back, I trust this forest to which I am drawn, maintained in a good ecological environment, to yield a good crop of shredded-chicken after thundery showers. Going into the mountain with such joyful expectation and then chancing on the mushrooms is like happening on the secret whisperings of the forest. And this time I did hear them. Coming down, I feel as happy as the richest man in the whole world.
No other material reward can replace this particular moment of euphoria. I have, surprisingly, become confident in my observation of environment and climate. I sincerely hope that in the future, through further searching for shredded-chicken mushrooms, I will know better how to enter into the whisperings of the forest.
The shredded-chicken mushrooms will not wait another day before disappearing. They are great gifts from heaven, so I respectfully take home three. Since I have arranged to go out for dinner, I store the mushrooms in the fridge.
Next morning, I trim off the withered caps, keeping two still-edible upturned flushed-white caps. I clean off the grit and dirt, cut them into slices, then divide the bowlful into two equal portions: one for making soup with shredded ginger, the other for a stir fry with tofu skin and goji berries. The broth is not remarkable but the mushroom flesh is sweet and wholesome. The stir-fried mushroom is equally delectable, texturally as smooth and tender as any shitake.
The symbiotic relationship between the shredded chicken mushroom and the black-winged termite is undoubtedly a classic lesson in the wonders of nature. And here it is: this simple and delicious meal makes me feel ever more grateful to the distant forest.