Farm Wives Can Cook
Similar to those “urban legends” we may hear from time to time, there’s a rural legend out there – the one that farm wives can cook. I have mulled around about dispelling this myth, and I was inspired to do so after reading my fellow column writer Christy Smith’s tales of cooking. It brought a smile to face and many memories; some not so fond. 
You see, although I am a farm wife now, I wasn’t raised on a farm. I didn’t learn how to can vegetables (never will – it scares me, that pressurized stuff), make my own dough or mix up some homemade coleslaw. To this day, a recipe that calls for active yeast will send me running. I have come a long way, however. Yes, I’ve even garnered top honors in a few local cooking competitions, but it’s all a bit of a fluke. To this day, after (almost) 13 years of marriage, my husband and I will somehow turn to the subject of certain homemade foods and he’ll say “but you’re from Lancaster County…you don’t know how to make that/never ate it?” No dear, while growing up in Pennsylvania Dutch country I didn’t indulge in pot pie, hog maw (don’t even ask) or pickled eggs. My mom grew up near Cape Cod and my dad grew up outside Philadelphia. I knew about cranberries and cheese steaks – really, really good cheesesteaks that you’ll rarely find in the Midwest. Don’t get me wrong; my mom was a good cook. I miss her homemade fried chicken and relish the times when I can re-create her spaghetti sauce, lasagna and chicken cacciatore. But growing up I didn’t pay much attention to what was going on in the kitchen. Hey, I was a teenager and had places to go, things to do. In college, I got by as a little sister at an ag fraternity that had a great cook. When I yearned for some real food, I signed up for kitchen duty so I could enjoy Marion’s latest creation at DTS.
Then came the culture shock…upon graduation I started a career in meat promotion. For roughly the next 10 years, I would work for the beef, veal or pork industry, and one of my main job duties was to educate consumers about how to purchase, cut and cook meat. Talk about a quick learning curve. I was fortunate to learn so much from a variety of individuals in the meat industry; there were chefs, dietitians, home economists, meat cutters and the livestock producers who took pride in preparing their product. At the end of the day, however, I still went back to my apartment and had my bowl of cereal. Little did I know that cereal was a breakfast food – that is, until I got married. To a pig and cattle farmer. With a mom who could really cook.
I first realized I was in for a life of culinary challenge early in our relationship. Donnie and I had known each other through college, but did not start dating until he moved to Indiana. On my first trip to the Hoosier state, I was determined to impress him by departing the plane and presenting him with a delicious offering of homemade chocolate chip cookies. I whipped up the sweets in my small apartment, made the flight and opted to wait until I was in front of his entire family to present the gift. As they opened the container, I noticed the cookies looked a bit small and rounder than those illustrated on the package. Probably the altitude, I thought. Well, for those of you that know my father in law, Daryl, you are aware he holds nothing back when it comes to opinions. To this day, he reminds me that we still have some of those cookies around and use them as door stops. They were horrible! Round little balls of inedible concrete.
In the early years of marriage, I tried, I really did. I traveled a lot, so usually I could often get away with those pre-cooked roasts from the store. Not every meal was bad, but I do remember one concoction that was so bad we just could not eat it. Even worse, we gave it to the dog and he wouldn’t eat it! I have gotten better – a lot better – at cooking. There’s nothing like the motivation of a husband saying “mom makes this,” or “mom’s _______ was always really good.” That really lights a fire under me for some reason. Don’t get me wrong; I really like my mother-in-law (yes, it’s true). I consider her one of my closest friends. But I’m also very competitive. So if she can make it, so can I. Over the years, Penny has graciously shared her recipes with me so I can attempt to recreate them (in my kitchen) for her son. I had been on a pretty good roll with meals lately when Donnie mentioned something about “slippery noodles.” O.k., so just the name gave me the willies. It’s known as “pot pie” where I grew up, and when Donnie mentioned his mom’s slippery noodles, well, you know the rest. I called Penny and she shared the recipe with me. She had just made some the night before and would gladly share the leftovers with us so I didn’t have to make them. No, I thought, I am making MY OWN! So, one cold winter day a couple of months ago I whipped up the noodles. It was really quite easy. I prepared them as Penny directed, and as supper approached I realized I might have another success on my hands. As I pulled the pan off the stove to set it on the table, I moved quickly to avoid Dillon, my son, who was helping to set the table. They’re not called slippery noodles for nothing. About a quarter of the recipe slid up the side of the pan and onto the floor. “Oh no!” I thought, but as I looked in the pan I saw there was plenty left and we could probably all enjoy seconds. Little did I know losing a portion of the meal was a good omen.
We sat down to eat and I held my breath. I took a bite, then another. It was not my favorite. Alright, I’ll be honest…they were gross. With enough salt, they were edible, but I was hankering for a bowl of Fruit Loops about now. As Donnie sat down at the table, he encouraged Dillon to try some. Dillon took a big mouthful and promptly spit everything out on the plate. “Gross,” he said. “They taste like sea water.” He’s taking right after Grandpa Daryl in the food critic category. Then it was Donnie’s turn. I thought for sure it was a disaster in waiting, but as he finished several bites he looked at me and said “just like moms.” YES! So, even though Dillon and I didn’t care for it, I triumphed that the recipe was a success. Needless to say, I will never make them again.
So, it is true – not all farm wives can cook. But, I get a little better every day thanks to the late Betty Witmer for her delicious pie crust recipe, to Sue Western for the best apple pie and dumplings, to the local church ladies and extension homemakers for their great cookbooks, to Tiffany Herron for easy pesto, to April Waugh for giving me the moral support needed to make pickles and to Penny, for the many recipes and tips she is always willing to share with me. I now feel proud to be a cooking farm wife in the first modern kitchen in Whitley County. Yup – I’ve even got a picture from the Extension Office of my kitchen from the early 40’s with that caption. It’s also up in the 4H Center, and the kitchen hasn’t changed much. But as I become a better cook I dream of a beautiful Mediterranean-style room just waiting for me to fire up the stove. Maybe Oprah and Nate will surprise me one day with a complete kitchen makeover (I’m not holding my breath!)
Oh, and in case you’re wondering…there were leftover slippery noodles, and yes, the dog did eat them!
Kelley Sheiss and her husband, Donnie, are the proud parents of a son, Dillon, and operate a family farm in Etna Troy Township. She is the executive director of Leadership Whitley County, enjoys volunteering for many local organizations and cooks a mean pot of chili.