Mushroom Magic

The friends we visited in Michigan over Thanksgiving are always comparing their neck of the woods unfavorably with California. They will cite the weather, the lack of sophistication and the poor quality of the food as reasons why no sane person would live there, this despite the fact that they have lived there happily for all of their lives. My Beloved and I always accepted their estimation of their location until this past weekend, when all those stereotypes were blown out of the water.

Yes, the weather was cold - 17 degrees F definitely feels chilly after our balmier Bay Area temperatures. But the snow we experienced was lovely, outlining the bare tree branches and carpeting the world with scintillation. We enjoyed the novelty of seeing our breaths all day long and I admired MB in puffy down jackets that made him look buffed and studly. I look like the Michelin Man in such garb, but he can pull it off.

The lack of sophistication was challenged beautifully by the wonderful "Best of Friends" exhibit we enjoyed at the Henry Ford Museum, where the elegantly simple models of Fuller's designs and the pure zen of Noguchi's work knocked our socks off.

And then there was the Huntsman.

Out in the Michigan boonies and down a dirt road lies a wonderful club for hunters. The clubhouse is made of huge golden post-and-beam construction and native stone, not so much rustic as simply and beautifully natural. The menu includes some offerings of wild game but isn't so fanatical as to offer only those choices. The tables are set with reproduction china with wildlife themes that echo the purpose of the club - in short, it's a wondrously cohesive place where the management understands its uniqueness and plays to its strengths.

My first course was Michigan Morels and Oregon Golden Chanterelles, cooked simply in butter and presented with a little hand rolled angel hair pasta to soak up the earthy sauce instead of the more common toast points. The dish was lightly sprinkled with good Parmesan cheese, as was the rim of the bowl in which it was served. With freshly ground pepper, it was savory, foresty heaven.

MB and I have decided that our friends are downplaying the charms of Motown to keep it safe from invading Californian marauders.