I don’t remember exactly how the love affair began, but I’m a regular at the local Amish farmer’s market. Growing up in Pennsylvania, although I was close to Philadelphia and not Lancaster County where a horse and buggy on the side of the road is a regular sighting, I’ve seen my share around the geographical joint, even here in Maryland.
The Amish market features a warehouse-size collection of individual booths: everything from handmade furniture to bakery, ice cream, candy, fruits and veggies, dry goods, meats and cheeses to my favorite as someone who doesn’t cook: the prepared foods counter.
This is where I met Eli: among the smorgasbord of German potato salad, tuna noodle casserole, chicken and dumplings, Waterford salad and rich banana pudding. I’m pretty sure the first time we spoke he was mocking my Philadelphia Eagles sweatshirt. Something about how they’d lost (it was a rough season). He chose the wrong girl to pick on, I was having a bad day, and I shot back, “Aren’t you both from Pennsylvania and also not supposed to have TV in your house?” And he said, “Well I can read the newspaper, glad I didn’t have to watch that slaughter.” But I could see just the slightest smirk on his face.
Behold the humble beginnings of our quaint colonial love story; he, in his standard Amish-issue handmade shirt, black pants, suspenders and straw hat, and I in my yoga pants (I don’t do yoga), Eagles sweatshirt and baseball hat. Each week when I’d come in, he’d make an oddly specific reference to the recent game. “Looks like Jalen had some of our fresh butter on his hands this week,” and one day I said, “There’s no way you’re reading about this in the newspaper by candlelight. You’re watching it.” He admitted to “seeing a highlight on his grandson’s phone” and in following weeks we’d banter back and forth about the team’s need to hire a new defensive coordinator or how the only fans he can’t stand more than Eagles fans are Dallas fans. At least we agree on one thing.
I met his lovely wife Rebecca one day when I was accusing him of having a Maserati hidden out back. I said she must be a very patient woman; she nodded silently. I said with his razor-sharp wit and entertaining humor, Eli needs a reality show; she quietly noted she’s been watching that show for 41 years.
One day my husband was with me and I introduced him to Eli as “my Amish boyfriend.” “I am,” said Eli, tipping his hat and raising an eyebrow. What a charmer, this guy. He tells my husband he’s taking his grandson down to spring training in Florida because the kid wants to see the Phillies’ Bryce Harper.
Sounds like a long-ass horse and buggy ride, I pointed out. I asked how he makes it to and from Maryland every weekend for this market, and he admitted to having a second house here. “In addition to the Lambo,” I add, that he parks next to the horse and buggies I’ve never once seen in the parking lot. Chicken and Dumplings ain’t cheap by the pound.
I said listen, this whole Amish thing is a front, isn’t it? Forget the Witness vibe where there’s no electricity and you’re milking cows and churning butter. These are like Amish costumes you got at Spirit Halloween, and you get paid in cash money, no IRS, no problem.
Not a bad gig. I’ll be an Amish side chick all day if free banana pudding is involved.