Mushroom, Chestnut and Red Wine Risotto

And a look back at the wonderful world of autumn foraging in Soria.

Nov 18, 2023

I love foraging. I love the idea of foraging. Despite having joined a few wild food foraging walking groups in my adult life, I still don’t feel I could tell the difference between hogweed and hemlock. So, my poor attempts at being a savvy forager are limited to dandelion leaves, nettles, their nutritious seeds, and a handful of other unmistakable plants.

On walks around the UK countryside, I’m sure I’m passing rosehips and elderberries, but my ingrained fear of mistaking their identity still keeps me from plucking them from their branches. Last autumn I bagged a few apples from the trees outside a cemetery trusting in my ability to recognise an apple when I saw one, and a damn good cider resulted from the effort. Blackberries are still an easy find virtually everywhere you go in the UK, but I’ve yet to come across a wild mushroom.

Growing up in the suburbs of Melbourne and Sydney, my siblings and I didn’t get a lot of opportunities to go foraging. The closest we came to appreciating the thrills of autumn was raking a pile of crunchy leaves together in our garden in Dandenong and throwing ourselves upon them.

My introduction to the fascinating world of wild food and the abundance of edible produce that seemed to be just lying around for the picking, began during the autumnal long weekends spent in Soria, 230km north of Madrid. It awakened ancestral memories and more than a little sense of independence – knowing that if humanity was plunged into a post-apocalyptic world, we would still stand a chance once the homes, supermarkets and food factories had been plundered and pillaged.

These hauntingly beautiful lands were where I truly fell in love with foraging. From the golden forests of oak to the damp earthy resinous smells of a pine forest, the storybook scenery revealed their riches after every rain. This is the time to grab the basket and try your luck. My partner had grown up in this province and had a keen eye for finding niscalos, (saffron milk caps) hidden among the pine needles, and knew which cowpat-dotted fields would reveal cardos, (king brown oyster mushrooms) from among the dried thistles.

Abandoned villages opened their dilapidated doors onto landscapes of walnut, chestnut, almond and crab apple trees, wild mushrooms, berries, and figs. The red fallow soil is a stunning contrast to the bright blue Castilian sky or dark broody clouds in October and November. Crumbling stone and adobe houses return to the earth from which they came. Fountains and lavaderos (stone washing ponds) are filled with algae and frogs. Bell towers are wrapped in vines devoid of leaves, and shrivelled sunflowers drop their seeds along the edges of forgotten fields.

Then there’s the smell of woodsmoke in the deserted shepherds’ hut where we’d roast the red peppers slowly over an open fire while the light rain pattered outside. Long drives along windy roads up misty mountains took us to tiny villages where we’d stop at a bar for a warming red wine and a tapa, and stock up on locally made cured chorizo and goats cheese.

These are some of the most wonderful memories of my life and the deep satisfaction of finding your own food, preparing it and eating it still stays with me, but like I mentioned at the beginning of this yarn, my attempts at wild food these days are limited to nettle soup, graveyard apple cider, and a handful of blackberries to throw on the morning muesli.

So indulge me if you will as I share a recipe that evokes the flavours of cool wet Sorian forests of earthy mushrooms and sweet creamy chestnuts, cooked with rice, red wine, thyme, and goats cheese.