Chicken of the Woods

There’s a certain thrill in spotting color in the forest this time of year — that sudden blaze of orange and yellow against damp bark and moss. Today it was Laetiporus sulphureus, Chicken of the Woods. The name sounds playful, but its presence feels powerful.

It was growing on a fallen oak, layered like coral, soft yet sturdy — a vivid reminder that decay isn’t an ending but a continuation. The forest doesn’t discard; it transforms. Every decomposing trunk is a nursery for new life, a quiet collaboration between fungi, soil, and time.

I took only a small section, leaving the rest to continue its work. In permaculture, we talk often about the principle of fair share — taking what’s needed and giving space for regeneration. This harvest felt like that in practice: an exchange, not an extraction.

Later, I cooked it simply — a quick sauté in butter, just enough to bring out its meaty texture and faint lemony aroma. Eating it, I thought about how even in the wildest, most complex systems, nourishment arises from reciprocity.

The forest fed the fungus, the fungus fed the soil, and today, it fed me. A perfect loop — one I’m grateful to be part of.