Pickled Pigs Feet and Amish Beards. We just returned from paying our respects to a friend of ours, a widowed grandmother from the most conservative group of the Amish. We had attended the viewing of her husband some twenty years previous. We were ushered into the same bedroom in the same house where it appeared the same two wood chairs were spaced six feet apart, facing each other. The chairs were connected by planking on which our friend of 35 years was laid. She was dressed like every other woman in the house and in the yard – a plain blue, homemade, frock dress with a white bib, her hands folded across her chest. After offering our condolences to each of her children, we were escorted off to one side by one of her daughter-in-laws. She had half a bushel of beans that they had picked that day. She said she wouldn’t have time to get to them, what with the funeral and all, and would we kindly take them home with us. So LeAnna and I spent the rest of the evening cutting up beans. LeAnna figures they will make fourteen quarts. She can do seven at a time in her pressure cooker. She’ll do half of them tonight, and finish the rest in the morning. I thought fourteen quarts was a lot. She said when she was a child she would help her mother put up 200 quarts every summer. Before we left, we ran into a forty-five year old son-in-law of the grandmother. His name is Joe. He had worked for us some twenty-seven years ago, as had his future bride. For all I know, we may have cemented their relationship right there in the shop. He sidled up to us, and in muted tones asked if we needed any pickled picks feet. He, along with the other men standing around in a circle with us, attempted to stifle the chortling. After all, we were at a wake. We well remembered the time when Joe was a young man feeling his oats. He had not yet joined the church. For entertainment late one evening they chose to accost an Amish preacher and pull a prank on him. After trimming off part of his beard, (a beard that is highly revered in the church), they decided to also steal a quart or two of pickled pigs feet before driving off in their English car. What Joe did not count on was the preacher calling the law. This is seldom done in the Plain Community. Without phones, the preacher had to wait until morning. He described the car to the cops, and also mentioned the pickled pigs feet to provide further incriminating evidence. It wasn’t long before Joe was picked up driving the same car with the pickled pigs feet in the trunk. He was sentenced to spend time in jail. However, the judge decided to grant Joe an out. If he would go to work for us, and prove that he was a responsible young man, they would waive the jail time and place him on probation instead. We didn’t hesitate to hire him. We understand the ways of some of the young Amish. Today Joe is a respected preacher in his church district, and may very well end up being a bishop. Apparently he still enjoys pickled pigs feet, and we’ll enjoy the beans throughout the coming winter.
Posted on: Tue, 15 Jul 2014 01:34:48 +0000
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