Continental Breakfast

by Josey Miller

Read the first part here.

Our favorite thing to do in Amish country is to get lost in the cornfields…

…while gawking at their homes – and clotheslines – from afar.

But now we were actually about to go inside one of those homes to eat dinner with the family.

We were right on time, but I started to get nervous. After all, our lifestyle is, of course, as different from theirs as theirs is from ours. What if they asked me questions in response to the questions I’d prepared for them?

We followed the directions Carolyn had given us. And their farm was so picturesque that I asked Jeff to pull over so I could photograph it:

But just as I looked through the viewfinder and pressed the button, something unexpected happened. Cars started flying down the road behind us… and turning into the driveway of the Amish family’s farm. Our Amish family’s farm.

Lots and lots of cars.

Twenty-two cars, in fact.

I counted once we reached the packed parking lot.

Apparently our “dinner with an Amish family” was actually a “dinner in the restaurant an Amish family is running out of their basement.”

I did not eat in their kitchen or their dining room. I did not bond with Naomi and Jacob’s children (though not for lack of trying). I did not get to ask any of my questions. We did eat family style, which was apropos given that we were sitting in the middle of a non-Amish family reunion of more than sixty non-Amish people.

They’d eaten there “at least seventeen times.”

Naomi only looked in my direction once – not to admire the Amishness of my dress (shocking, I know), but rather – to show the room how she mashes the potatoes with a mixer attached to an electric drill.

But between their fresh, homemade peanut butter and their fresh, homemade chicken and bread and chow chow and their fresh, homemade, well, everything else… somehow we still left satisfied.

And I was pretty glad we didn’t bring flowers.

*Dutch for “two.” At least Google answers my questions.

by Josey Miller

I am fascinated with the Amish. So much so that, while I’m generally freakishly well-mannered, I lose all self-control around the Amish and take pictures of them even though I know perfectly well that they don’t appreciate it. In fact, when we’re in Central Pennsylvania visiting our favorite B&B, Jeff says I become Amish paparazzi. “You do know they have rear-view mirrors, right?” he said as I took this photo.

So you can just imagine my pure exhilaration at the thought of having dinner with an Amish family.

As part of my 30th birthday gift, Jeff coordinated with Carolyn, our B&B hostess, who is able to set up these dinners with her Amish neighbors. And once I found out the Monday before our Saturday meal, I was on a mission. While I realize this may sound mocking, so help me I meant no disrespect whatsoever; on the contrary, I was truly honored. I felt as if I were a representative of all non-Amish people: a non-Amish ambassador if you will. I polled my friends and coworkers to find out the questions they’ve always wanted to ask Amish people, but didn’t have the opportunity to ask and created a (thankfully mental) list.

I even chose my most “Amish” outfit, opting to pack a very conservative floor-length floral sundress. (Yes, I know the Amish do not wear patterns, but it seemed close enough.) I nervously got dressed at the B&B, then went downstairs to ask Carolyn if I was dressed appropriately.

“Oh yes, they know you’re not Amish, of course. And don’t worry: Unlike most Amish people, this particular family doesn’t think you’re damned to hell. They just don’t think your lifestyle is for them.”

(That hadn’t even dawned on me, but I was relieved. Eating dinner with people who’d already decided I was damned to hell would seem like an uphill battle.)

When I was at Dos Caminos Soho a few days prior, my Aunt Karol suggested that – even though we were paying a $20 per person suggested donation – we were still going to someone’s home and, therefore, should not show up empty-handed. (Of course! Foolishly, I hadn’t thought of that, but she was absolutely right. See paragraph one.) So Jeff and I stopped at countless markets between our B&B in Hummelstown and the home of Jacob and Naomi King. But no luck! We were running out of time. I began to sweat. Would it be worse to come without flowers – and what else can you bring to the home of an Amish family? Certainly not wine – or to arrive late? We decided that punctuality was the priority.

To be continued…

Update: Continued here.

The white-painted porch swing creaks as we sway back and forth. The frog in the Koi pond loudly croaks, belying its small size. Jack the black cat nuzzles my calf and the horses graze in the pasture.

We’re at Westwynd Farm, otherwise known as “my version of Heaven.”