None of my sisters was a particularly picky eater as a child, nor was I. My oldest sister would get a stomachache when she ate any airy desserts—whipped cream, mousse, and so on—but that was pretty much the extent of our “will not eat” list. None of us had allergies, and instead of memories of what we wouldn’t eat, I remember most keenly what each of us liked best. Two of us loved the creamed onions at Thanksgiving, the tiny pearl orbs coated in a buttery sauce. One of us like to eat slices of untoasted white bread slathered with bright yellow mustard for breakfast on the way to school. We all liked calzones, homemade graham crackers, and broccoli in almost any form.
All that being said, there were a few foods of which I steered clear. For one, raw tomatoes were a hard pass. They spilled out of our garden at an alarming rate every summer, and all three of my sisters loved them, eating cherry tomatoes by the handful in the warm sunshine of the garden, or biting into a big heirloom one like an apple.
I politely declined, finding their not-entirely-sweet but not-entirely-savory quality off-putting. I also assiduously avoided raw bell peppers, Swiss cheese, cantaloupe, and mushrooms of any sort.
Mushrooms weren’t hard to skip, as my mother cooked them very infrequently, if at all. When we were in the grocery store, I’d eye them suspiciously as we passed the salad bar, wondering who in the heck would voluntarily eat the white button ones: raw and wan-looking with waxy tops. You’re an adult! I wanted to shout at anyone piling their plastic clamshell with toppings. Go for the bacon bits! There are also croutons HI HELLO DID YOU SEE THE CROUTONS?
And further into the store, down the canned soup aisle, it never escaped my shrewd 10-year-old eye that the Cream of Mushroom section was largely untouched. We’re onto you, shrooms! I thought. Split pea 4eva.
Sometimes my mother would buy palm-sized portobello caps and grill them, which seemed not terrible but also not terrifically enticing either. Like the discerning gourmand I was, I would eschew them and opted instead for a plain squishy burger bun covered in Heinz ketchup. (I know! I know! My palate is exquisite.)
By college, I’d convinced myself—through sheer lack of exposure—that I didn’t like mushrooms at all. I’d internalized it, making it part of the litany of tiny facts you collect over time that make up your story. Blue eyes; hair that streaks blond in the summer; loves running; does not like mushrooms; favors Old Spice deodorant; excels in the midfield at soccer but bad at corner kicks; gets freckles in the sun; likes sweet more than salty; not very patient.
It was, in fact, a shiitake mushroom that changed my mind. (Okay, more than one.) I was a senior in college, in Manhattan for a long weekend. On Saturday night, I ate at Gramercy Tavern—one of the first truly adult dates I’d go on in the city. My main course was slices of duck breast, the insides a rosy pink, with fat slivers of shiitake mushrooms around the plate. A thick, syrupy sauce was drizzled over top—as dark as balsamic vinegar but smelling salty and savory. I couldn’t place the scent or flavor, except that it almost tasted like teriyaki sauce crossed with barbecue sauce. The mushrooms were marinated in the same sauce, then cooked so that they got golden and crispy on the edges but chewy on the inside. They tasted like very expensive meat, and I could have eaten an entire bowlful of them.
Ever since, I’ve loved mushrooms—when cooked well. If you have any sort of “shroom trepidation” (I believe that is the official medical term), I recommend getting yourself to Upland in New York City where they serve a whole (as in, the size of a salad plate) hen-of-the-woods mushroom, flash fried and baked until crispy but not oily. It’s seasoned perfectly and tasted like a potato chip wishes it could taste.
You could also go for my tried-and-true, better-than-croutons technique: thinly slice some cremini or shiitake or maitake mushrooms. Spread them on a parchment-lined baking sheet and drizzle them with olive or coconut oil. DO NOT SALT THEM. With mushrooms, you need to salt later on, as it’ll draw out the liquid and they won’t be crispy.
Bake at 425 degrees, stirring once or twice, until they shrink down and get golden brown and crisp.
Salt them, then eat them by the handful.
It’s lucky that I love mushrooms now, as they come in particularly handy when you don’t eat much meat, which I don’t these days. Their flavor is similarly savory and umami-forward, much like steak. They’ve got a nicely chewy, firm texture—also like meat—and they pair well with pretty much anything from pasta to vegetables to cheese. (If you haven’t made this greens + mushroom + cheese situation please do, but I digress.)
I add mushrooms to just about everything. In the past few weeks, I’ve put them in all of the following dishes:
-Fried rice with pineapple and water chestnuts
-Veggie chili with sweet potatoes
-Sticky tofu rice bowls with pickled dandelion greens
-Smoky black bean tacos with cilantro, tomatillos, and shredded apple
-Pesto pasta with arugula
-Odds-and-ends frittata
My favorite way to eat them lately would be a toss-up between toasts and quinoa. For the former, I toasted thick slices of ciabatta and piled them high with mushrooms I’d chopped and sautéed in a lot of olive oil and balsamic until sticky and sweet and salty.
For the latter, I cooked quinoa with peas and three kinds of mushrooms: fresh cremini mushrooms, dried shiitake mushrooms, and porcini powder. Porcini powder is something you probably don’t have on hand, I realize, but worth seeking out. You can skip it in the following recipe, but I wouldn’t!
Quinoa with Mushrooms and Peas
Serves 2
2 cloves garlic
1/2 pound fresh cremini mushrooms, chopped
½ cup quinoa, rinsed
½ teaspoon porcini powder
2 1/2 cups water
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 ounce dried shiitake mushrooms
1 lemon, zested and juiced
1 cup peas
2 tablespoons tamari
Mince the garlic. Add about a tablespoon of olive oil to a medium pot and heat until shimmering.
Add the garlic and cook, stirring so it doesn’t burn, for about 1 to 2 minutes. The garlic should be a light golden brown.
Add the cremini mushrooms and quinoa and cook, stirring, for 1 minute—just enough to toast the quinoa.
Add the porcini powder, 1 1/2 cups of the water, and salt. Bring to a boil then reduce to a simmer, cover, and cook for about 20 minutes or until the quinoa has absorbed all the water.
Remove from the heat and fluff with a fork. Set aside.
Combine the shiitake mushrooms with the remaining 2 cups of water in a small pot and bring to a boil. Cook for about 10 minutes, then drain the mushrooms. Once they’re cool enough to handle, thinly slice the caps.
Add the quinoa mixture, the sliced shiitakes, the zest and juice of the lemon, the peas, and the tamari to a large skillet with a glug of olive oil. (Yeah, a GLUG. Just be free with it.)
Cook, stirring occasionally, until warmed through. (Sometimes I like to cook it a little more so that the quinoa gets a bit crispy on the bottom and sides, but that’s a matter of preference.)
Serve hot—it’s good over a handful of fresh greens, ideally something delicate like mache or watercress.