My Brown-Eyed Boy and His Homeland I Learned to Love

And an Amish-inspired Recipe That Marries Flavor With Simplicity

Photo by Arno Smit on Unsplash

Way back in the last millennium, my husband and I met at a small school called Messiah College, nestled in the quiet outskirts of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. When I first visited the school with my mom back in the spring of 1995, I fell in love with the campus’s New England-esque charm and the kind, cheerful demeanor of the students I met. My mom, on the other hand, fell in love with the fact that it was only a stone’s throw from the mysterious lure of the Amish community of Lancaster County.

There are two things you should know about my mom.

1. She loves to travel. If I called her this afternoon and proposed a trip to Iceland, she’d call me back within the hour with flight schedules and travel costs. If it involves visiting a new place or the opportunity to strike up conversations with complete strangers, she’s game.

2. She has a soft-spot for nostalgia. Whether it’s a recipe, gadget, or an old saying, if it transports her back to the dewy grass of her childhood, her face will light up like the sun itself and it won’t dim for days. Therefore it follows that if something as simple as a coconut cake that tastes “just like Mother’s” can send my mom into a fit of joy, imagine her being immersed in a whole world that sings an anthem to the days of old like the Amish community does.

No lie, the first time we visited Lancaster county (during our same trip that took us to Messiah College,) my mom watched out her window with childlike wonder, soaking in the horse-drawn buggies, the washing hung on clotheslines, the mustache-less beards and tidy hair buns of the Amish men and women.

“Oh, couldn’t you just live here?” she said in an awed voice as we drove at a touristy, snail-like pace along the back roads, garnering us eye rolls and horn honks from the locals.

“Um, no.” I muttered. I could not in any millimeter of space within my 17-year old brain imagine ever living in some place so boring. As far as I could tell, there were no shopping malls or Apple Bees. It was all flowery quilts and soft pretzels. Seriously, when were these Amish people gonna snap out of it and just get modern already? I turned up the dial on the radio then leaned back in the passenger seat as I zoned out to Casey Kasem’s Top 40.

Little did I know that in two short years I’d meet a brown-eyed boy who grew up among those very same fields, a descendent of those very same Amish, and I’d fall in love with him. A few months into the relationship, he brought me home to Lancaster county to meet his family. And suddenly those roadside stands boasting the produce of a small garden and simple farmhouses with lines of laundry strung out their windows didn’t seem boring or out of date. They were the rich soil where his roots were buried, the mysterious ground from which he burst and bloomed into this gentle-voiced, word-hungry, dazzled-me-senseless young man.

Now, I was starting to see Amish country through my mother’s eyes. Women weeded their flowerbeds with crisp white aprons tied over their dresses while men sat atop steel-wheeled wagons with a team of horses out in their fields. It was a beautiful vision of by-gone days, images described to me by the authors I read in my literature classes back at school but now played out in technicolor before my very eyes.

But I have to admit that when my brown-eyed boy brought me home one summer evening for dinner with his family, I started to hear the word “boring” echoing in the back of my mind once again as we sat down at the table for our meal. Before us sat a platter of no less than 20 ears of corn glistening yellow and steaming, while beside it was a pot filled to the brim with mashed potatoes. At opposite corners of the table were two loaves of thickly sliced bread with two small saucers next to each of them: one with butter, the other with jam.

And that was our meal.

Now, I’d grown up in a world where a meal didn’t even have a name if there wasn’t a hunk of meat attached to it. Vegetables and bread? It felt like a scene from the lean years in Little House on the Prairie. But here I was. I liked this boy a lot and I didn’t want to ruin it all over a few boring ears of corn. So I played along. I sat down and loaded up my plate, I said “yes, thank you” and “this looks delicious,” and smiled cheerfully the whole time.

And then I started eating.

Lo and behold, these people with their bonneted and bearded bloodlines knew what they were talking about! I loved every bite of that meal! I ate the corn on the cob, then corn shaved on top of the mashed potatoes, then mashed potatoes atop the bread, and then jam smothered over everything. Who knew that four meatless wonders could make such a bountiful and satisfying meal!

As the years have passed and I’ve had the privilege of sitting down to many “corn-on-the-cob dinners” at my in-laws’ table, I’m reminded of how this community has surprised me with the beauty of its simplicity over and over again. And now that I’m vegetarian, I’ve come to appreciate their love of eating from earth and garden all the more.

It was this heritage that inspired my recipe for this week. A couple months ago I was trying to come up with a quick dinner fix, but I still hadn’t made my weekly grocery run and the refrigerator had little more than applesauce and pickles to offer. It was a cold evening, perfect for a warm, brothy soup, but I didn’t have the time or patience to labor over something complex. And then I was reminded of those corn-on-the-cob meals. I scoured my cupboards and freezer, scrounged up some noodles and veggies and got to work. The final product is completely unspectacular but possibly my family’s favorite soup at the moment. Every time I make this dish, they leave me no leftovers for the next day’s lunch, and I am absolutely okay with that.

Plain and Simple Corn and Noodle Soup

Ingredients:

1 c. onion, chopped

1 c. celery, chopped

2 quarts of no-chicken broth or 6 no-chicken bouillon cubes dissolved in 8 cups of boiling water (Okay, I don’t like to be a Picky Patty here, but to get the true flavor of this dish, you really want to use no-chicken broth. Unfortunately, your standard veggie broth just won’t give the same results.)

1 1/2 c. frozen corn

4 - 6 oz. dry noodles of your choice, cooked according to package directions (I’ve recently discovered Goodles and absolutely love them—they have tons of protein and fiber, taste delicious, and—bonus—Target sells them!)

salt and pepper to taste

optional, 1 1/2 c. soy curls soaked in no-chicken broth (I put this as optional because soy curls aren’t everyone’s jam. Honestly, I didn’t know they were my jam until 6 months ago. They’re basically soy pressed into dry little strips that resemble chicken. I know that doesn’t sound too appetizing, but once they’re rehydrated in broth and sautéed in a pan, they add nice texture, good flavor, and lots of protein to the dish. But again, if it all seems too scary, just skip it!)

Instructions:

Toss a few splashes of broth into a medium pot that’s warming over medium heat. Add the onions and celery and sauté for a good 5 or so minutes until they begin to really soften up. Once your veggies are relaxed and ready to mingle, add in the cooked noodles and frozen corn. Cook for an additional 10 minutes to let the corn warm up and the flavors meld. Do a taste test, then add salt and pepper to your liking. I love to get heavy handed with the pepper at this point. It just adds another dimension of flavor to the pot. Once the seasonings are spot on, pull from the heat, add in the soy curls if using, and ladle into bowls.

That, my friends, is the fastest dinner you will ever prepare. Serve with some crusty bread slathered in vegan butter and topped with generous spoonfuls of strawberry jam, and prepare to be amazed by the yummy goodness of simplicity. Enjoy!

Serves 6 generous bowls.