Jennifer Wennig     February 6, 2006

The extent of my work experience in or near a kitchen is limited to a couple of nights washing dishes at a bingo hall during summer between 10th and 11th grades. Two sink sessions were more than enough. Shocking.

One later summer, I promoted myself to diner hostess. This time I was fired. It was unsurprising, considering the amount I owed in broken dishes nearly exceeded my total wage.

Socially, I've been known to whip up a lovely and tasty spread of dip, olives, cheeses and all the frozen finger foods Costco offers. Last Thanksgiving John and I made a super-size festive meal that provided five evenings of leftovers. We earned a gold star (award by us) for preparing nearly every dish from scratch (we don't need to comment of timing and flavor).

Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy time in the kitchen. But I rarely make dinner for more than, well, the two of us. And even then my repertoire isn't that diverse.

With wifedom approaching, it was time I learned to make a traditional supper for my man after his long workday. Now that's funny.

But seriously, a little culinary guidance would help. A comfort food gal, I was hardly interested in fusion, tapas or food with foam. Trendy wasn't the flavor I was seeking.

And I found just the opposite at the Patchwork Quilt Country Inn , nestled in the heart of Indiana's Amish community. Before visiting I spoke with Carlene, the Inn's restaurant manager, country-cooking yearnings. "I'd really like to roll-up my sleeves and help. Put me to work," I recall saying. And, did I work.

Upon arrival, I was introduced to the kitchen staff, an ensemble of senior ladies who proved themselves to be a group of sweet, hardworking, no-nonsense ladies who could turn out a delicious meal with the best of them.

I donned an apron, washed my hands and, well, sat on stool. I think the sweet smell of baking bread briefly prompted a mental food coma, but I was here to do, not watch. I jumped up next to Susanna, who was making cinnamon rolls, gently took the rolling pin and said, "Let me help." Under Susanna's tutelage I rolled the dough to an even thickness.

Like any Chicago restaurant, Patchworks's kitchen was bustling. One minute rolling dough, the next making escalloped pineapple. Scalloped potatoes I know. Escalloped anything, I'm confused. And, pineapple? Barely a sous chef in this kitchen, I wasn't about to challenge the sensibility of such a concoction.

In a mixing bowl the size of a kiddie pool—we were cooking for 70—I mixed eggs, sugar, salt, milk, pineapple, bread and melted butter. Using a measuring cup you could bathe a baby in, I scooped even amounts into two baking dishes.

Declaring, "I'm done," there was no time for glory. Treva, the kitchen drill sergeant, handed me a fantastically stained, burned and weathered recipe card for sage dressing. Reading it, I realized that in this country kitchen, dressing is what gets stuffed in a bird, not drizzled on a salad. But here there was only time for cooking, not protesting.

Next up: the least pleasurable task of my spin in this kitchen. Not yet a master of the perfect mashed potatoes, I looked forward to making this country meal staple under Treva's guidance. But I wasn't anticipating peeling 50 potatoes. No less with a knife. Apparently, kitchen gadgets aren't so country.

My poor hand strained and looking a bit like a claw, I moved on to soup. Over the sweltering stove (hey, a facial steam), I whisked together the roux (a mixture of flour and butter) then added chicken stock, hot water and this odd chicken paste. But what do I know? My soup comes from cans. Stir, stir, stir. Voila, my first soup base from scratch was ready for hosting vegetables.

The hour was nearing 6 p.m. My feet and back were aching. What was I thinking when I chose to wear my Biviel shoes from City Soles instead of sneakers? Sneakers didn't go with my pants. Pathetic, pampered girl. I took off my apron and headed to the dining room. Already crowded with hungry patrons, I snaked my way around the buffet taking glee in knowing I actually made that pineapple thing folks were scooping up.

I followed suit, dining on mashed potatoes, escalloped pineapple (actually quite tasty), sage dressing, the Inn 's famous buttermilk, pecan chicken and a warm, light and airy dinner roll.

Dee-lish. Damn, I'm good.

Traffic Jammed
Order The Patchwork Quilt Country Inn Cookbook (available on its website) and host a Sunday evening supper for your friends. The flavor of these dishes will delight. Just don't reveal how much butter, whole milk, real sour cream and white flour they'll be ingesting.