By Juliane Hiam
It was one of those perfect summer days in the Berkshires: rays of sunshine slanting through a crisp, fragrant breeze, aromas of young blossoms and new foliage growth, with undertones of earthy-musky fertility—the warmth of the sun like that of a light blanket, comforting but not oppressively hot. I was on the back of an ATV, having fun but nonetheless holding on for dear life, snaking up and down the narrow rows of a slightly unkempt orchard, ducking and bobbing to avoid branches and leaves.
My guide—Ian Purkayastha. He and his wife, Jane Lowe, are friends of mine, as well as fellow Berkshires residents. Ian also happens to be a truffle and wild mushroom expert. The company he founded in 2012, when he was just 19 years old, Regalis Foods, is one of the foremost purveyors of specialty ingredients in the U.S. He also authored a memoir at age 23, Truffle Boy. On this particular day, though, he was generously fulfilling a request of mine.
As a frequent hiker and woods meanderer, I’d been thinking about foraging—the whole primal human instinct of it—for some time, and had been hinting to Ian that I’d love to tag along someday when he went. I knew it would be an illuminating experience. My partner and I hold Ian in almost mythic status, but it’s well-deserved: Where most of us see forest simply as stands of trees, Ian sees habitats, ecosystems, tree species and soil conditions, fungal ecologies, and edible treasures. There’s a childlike awe and sense of wonder that surrounds him that’s infectious. His interest in luxury foods has never struck me as being about status or exclusivity, but rather about deep connection with nature, uninhibited curiosity, and knowledge of the world around us—the amazing things it has to offer if only you pay attention, and know what to look for. His wife, Jane, happens to be someone who makes, builds, creates, manifests, and is Ian’s partner in everything, so they bring this exuberance out in each other exponentially.
For our foraging adventure, Ian and I met up at a recently acquired piece of property not far from his home—sprawling acreage of orchards in need of love and tending. The vision for it still seems to be coming into focus, but there’s no shortage of enthusiasm. Ian talks as if he’s willing ideas into existence as he shows me around, telling me about harvesting methods in Japan he’s researching one moment, cider presses the next. He sees possibility everywhere. He starts the ATV—which he refers to as “a beast”—and tells me to hop on. We traverse hillsides overlooking lakes and fields, gazing out at Mount Greylock in the distance.
Over the sound of the revving engine, he points out burgeoning apples and pears, plums, currants, berries, peaches—all by the names of their varietals—as they whip past. He slows down intermittently to show me another view, then plucks a cherry that’s already ripe and tells me to taste it before we enter thick forest at the edge of the orchards.
Over the course of the ride he shows me some of his favorite places to hunt morels in the spring, educating me about the perfect kind of ash tree with moss at its base that speaks to the exact relationship between host tree, terrain, dampness, and light that creates harmony for the mushroom to propagate. “My favorite tree yields like 50 morels every year.” It wasn’t the right time of year for morels, though. He speeds on, wistfully noting that we’ve also missed ramp season.
Ian describes fungi, colors of bark, and aromas, explaining the seasons, what’s edible, what’s medicinal, what thrives and why. He has encyclopedic knowledge, but, more than that, complete engagement with the terrain. Nothing around him seems incidental to his survey of where we’re going. Every mud puddle and fallen log carries information. He points out a natural spring he discovers in real time. “Oh look!” While I’m admiring the scenery, Ian appears to be reading it.
Long before he became known among Michelin-starred chefs, Ian was learning about foraging in the Ozarks of Arkansas with his uncle, an archaeologist who mentored him not only in mushrooms and truffles, but also in minerals and gemstones. It was Ian’s grandfather, an artist, who introduced him to food as an art form and an elevated human experience.
In Truffle Boy, Ian explains that he gravitated toward fine food because it was ultimately not about pretension or social status, but about the natural world, which made perfect sense after spending time with him in the woods. All of his interests in one way or another seem connected to the landscape. It’s remarkable, and perhaps rare, for someone to build his professional life around the things that fascinated him as a child rather than growing out of them.
For my part, I grew up spending time alone in the woods with few restrictions, but was always admonished never to touch, let alone eat, wild mushrooms. Even now they make me nervous. I hunted for all kinds of other edible things as a kid, though: wild blueberries, crab apples, choke cherries, dandelion greens, wild watercress, fiddleheads, blackberries, elderberries. We ate all of these at the dinner table, and I loved the feeling of eating something I’d gathered myself, providing something at the table for free. It was so much more satisfying than buying food at a store, or even cultivating it in a garden, which we also did. When asking Ian to take me foraging, I think I wanted to somehow find that gatherer instinct again, and maybe learn something about the forbidden kingdom of wild mushrooms in the process.
Our foraging jaunt was not yielding anything until, after almost a full hour of traversing mud, rocks, tree roots, and uneven terrain, Ian came to a screeching halt. Something had suddenly caught his eye.
I had been straining to keep an eye out for the color neon orange, which he had instructed me to do, as it would indicate chicken of the woods. I had been focusing on this task intensely, but to no avail. Meanwhile, Ian was pointing excitedly at something else.
I climbed off the ATV and followed him deeper into the woods, still not seeing anything, until we came upon a hemlock tree. Emerging in all directions were shiny amber and reddish-brown sculptural mushrooms that almost resembled polished gems. What was so striking, though, wasn’t the mushrooms. It was the look on his face. He looked up with amazement and genuine delight.
He explained that this mushroom—reishi—is valuable and has medicinal properties, and is used to make tea. I was amazed by the mushrooms, but also by how I had not even seen them, and how this abundant treasure trove could easily have been overlooked.
At the end of the ride, he gave me the reishi and instructions for how to use it. When I got home, I kept thinking about how much is around us that we can be completely disconnected from, and blind to. I held the mushrooms up to my nose and inhaled the earthy smells, placed them in the sun to dry, then immediately took another walk in the woods near my own house—a hike I’ve done hundreds of times. I ran my fingers across moss and bark, then, whereas I normally stay on the trail, I veered off toward a wetland and a stream, remembering what Ian had said about moisture habitats and host trees needing dampness.
I squished through the wet, mushy forest floor, finding nothing, then stepped up to dry land, meandered a bit, and skirted around a large tree. There before me: neon orange. I had found chicken of the woods. The day of foraging wasn’t over after all, and now I was the one looking in awe, beaming.
