I must admit there isn’t much for men to do in the way of indoor activities, so I always suggest they shuck corn. For that purpose I keep a bushel basket of tasseled corn beside each of the armchairs that ring the back fireplace. Except for the odd ear, the men never shuck any. It seems that they much prefer to nap after Freni’s meals, than engage in any kind of activity. Any kind. Or so their wives sometimes confide to me.
We do, of course, actually eat in the dining room. The single, solid oak table that stretches almost two thirds of the length of the room is the same table we used when Susannah and I were growing up. It was built by my great-grandfather Jacob “The Strong” Yoder from a tree that occupied the site of the original farmhouse. This table can seat twenty people comfortably, twenty-six in a pinch. Incidentally, Jacob “The Strong” and his wife, Magdalena, had sixteen children and forty-seven grandchildren.
But enough of my family history. My point is that all the guests eat at the same table. I sit at my rightful place at the head of the table, which just happens to be the end nearest the kitchen door, and Susannah takes her rightful place at the foot. If she happens to be home.
Freni and Mose do not eat with us. Even if Freni could countenance supping with the English, her sensitivities would never allow her to watch them eat her food. Or not eat it, as the case may be. Freni and Mose live in what is called a “grandparents house” on their youngest son’s farm, which is really only a stone’s throw from here if you take the shortcut. They eat a late supper there. Although I am tempted to digress further and tell you a little about their rather strange relationship with this son, it really isn’t your business, is it? Or mine, for that matter.
At any rate, it seems to work out fairly well, having the guests eating together at the same table at the same time. Nobody ever feels lonely, although a few people have complained about feeling snubbed. But then, you can’t have everything, can you? Of course, I’m the one who determines the seating arrangement. It wouldn’t do for perfect strangers to plop themselves down just anywhere. I at least know a little bit about each one, and try to maximize compatibility. So just ignore Susannah’s complaints.
Speaking of which, Susannah is supposed to help me set the table, but I usually end up doing it all myself. I keep it simple. I don’t use tablecloths. It’s not that I’m theologically opposed to tablecloths, but you wouldn’t believe the way some of our guests eat! Money does not equate with manners. If I used tablecloths I’d have to spend most of my time doing laundry, which is no way to run a business. Besides, not only does the bare, plank table seem authentically Amish, but the splinters it imparts go a long way to keeping elbows off the table.
Of course we use dishes. I will admit, however, that I am a little tight-fisted when it comes to shelling out for crockery. What is the point of using bone china when the guests are expecting to eat off hand-thrown clay pottery? Believe me, the ironstone I originally picked up at the Woolworth’s in Somerset, and have been supplementing from garage sales ever since, works just fine.
And is it my fault if people assume that I, or one of many relations, made the stuff? I was not trying to be devious when I put tape over the manufacturer’s name on the back. I merely needed someplace to write “Property of the PennDutch Inn.”
Guests never quite know what to expect when it comes to their first meal at the inn; still, I do my best not to disappoint them. Atmosphere is what they’re paying for, and atmosphere is what I give them. If I had my way, I’d begin each meal with everyone holding hands and bowing their heads for a prayer. After meals I would read the Bible to them, in German of course, and we’d sing a few ancient Swiss hymns. But not even Susannah would sit still for that.
Instead, I have to content myself with hostessing stuff. I greet each of the guests as they officially enter the dining room for the first time and take them to their seat. Normally I would speak to them in my fake German accent, which is frankly quite charming.
But on this particular day, the one just prior to deer-hunting season, I was in a quandary. Thanks to the rude Congressman, Garrett Ream, and the huffy Ms. Parker, my guests all knew my accent was a fake. The question now was whether or not I should resume this quaint affectation, or talk like the English. Reluctantly I decided to abandon my cultural heritage. Susannah, I knew, would be relieved.
“Good evening,” I said pleasantly to Mrs. Ream, who was the first person to enter the dining room. People of her breeding are precise about time. “Allow me to show you to your seat.”