A Normal Sunday in Norway: Chanterelle Hunting with Ingrid

My friend Ingrid picked me up on Sunday morning, handed me a basket and a pair of rubber boots two sizes too big, and drove us into the forest. No big announcement. No “are you ready for an adventure?” Just: we’re going to get chanterelles, then lunch.

Apparently, this is a normal Sunday in Norway. I was very excited. She was very calm. That was the whole day, honestly.

Into the pines

The forest was the kind I only knew from films. Tall pines, the ground covered in moss so thick it feels like walking on a mattress, blueberry bushes everywhere, and that smell of wet earth and resin. It was cold enough to see my breath in the morning, then the sun came through the trees and everything turned gold.

Ingrid walks through the forest like I walk through Lavapiés. She knows where everything is. At one point she just stopped, pointed at the ground and said “there”. I looked. I saw moss. She pointed again. And then suddenly I saw them: little orange trumpets hiding under the moss, and once you see one, you see ten.

“Just look for the orange ones”

That was her whole instruction. Ay, it sounds so simple. It’s not simple. Every orange leaf looks like a mushroom for the first hour, and I got very emotional about a few of them. But by lunchtime I had a proper basket, and I understood why people call them forest gold. They even smell a little fruity, like apricots.

Ingrid also taught me the part that matters more than finding them. Chanterelles have lookalikes, and she checked every single one I picked before it went in the basket: the ridges under the cap that run down the stem instead of proper gills, the colour, the smell, the way they tear. I put back anything she wasn’t sure about, no arguing.

So please, this is my serious bit: only pick mushrooms you know with 100% certainty, or go with someone who does. An expert friend, a local foraging group, a guided walk. A beautiful mushroom is not worth a hospital visit. If in doubt, leave it in the forest.

Also good to know: in Norway there’s a tradition called allemannsretten, the right to roam, that lets people walk in the forest and pick mushrooms and berries for themselves. Ingrid explained it very proudly. Other countries and regions have different rules, so check where you are before you go picking.

Lunch, Norwegian style

We sat on a rock with a thermos of coffee and sandwiches with brown cheese, which is sweet and caramel-ish and I did not expect to love it this much. The sun was on our faces, nobody was around, and I just thought: mira, this is what Sunday is supposed to feel like.

Butter, garlic, toast

That night we cooked the chanterelles the way Ingrid’s family always does. Nothing complicated, because they don’t need it. A dry pan first, so they lose their water, then butter, a little garlic, salt, pepper, all piled on thick toast. Some things are so good you don’t want to add anything, and this is one of them.

My mamá would probably add chilli. My papá would put them in an arepa. I’ll try both next time. But that night, in a warm kitchen with the forest still on my boots, the simple version was perfect.

The mini recipe is right below. Takk, Ingrid. For the boots, the patience, and for checking every single mushroom.