Tucked Inn

I have often thought that TUCKED INN would be a great name for a bed and breakfast. A place for a more mature crowd to sit and sip by a fireplace, staring out the window at the accumulating snow, and eating cheesey, creamy, porky, potatoey dishes until it is time to go and take a nap. That would be a place that I would be attracted to. A place with no ski racks, no mountain bikes, and no workout equipment.
Moseying along on a old tired horse with a back as wide as a dining room table might be permitted. Sharing in the efforts of the kitchen would be permitted. Delicious dishes would be discovered from the treats that show up at a church or Grange supper. Amish dishes might appear as I hear that they now travel quite a bit. A very long hat rack would have to be installed to accomodate all of the flat black hats. A huge garden would permit picking one's own salad (Yes, salad would have to be permitted judging by today's tastes and there would be one Frenchman to make the dressing).
Yesterday I tucked in. I spent the day making spaghetti and meatballs. I ground the pork and the beef and mixed them with garlic and parsley and egg and cheese and bread crumbs for the meatballs. I didn't have any bread so I used packaged bread crumbs but the meatballs came out allright anyway. The meatballs browned up nicely in olive oil and I moved on to the sauce.
Two big cans of tomatoes and onions and garlic and pepperocini and salt and pepper and sugar and fresh thyme and fresh basil and a bay leaf and some red wine simmered away for hours and then the meatballs were added and the simmering recommenced.
When the sauce was properly reduced, I boiled up some bucatini, topped it with sauce and meatballs, and covered that with a nice layer of grated Asiago.
A better name for the bed and breakfast might be Nonna's Tucked Inn. That would attract the crowd that I am interested in and make for a whirlwind in the kitchen. No men would be allowed in the kitchen, just a mob of old Italian grandmothers creating their masterpieces of simplicity and quality.
Marie D'Medici brought fine cooking to France. The French can take a three day old dead horse and whip up a sauce that makes it ambrosial. The Italians use only the freshest and best of ingredients. I once read that if you want to experience genuinely divine cooking, first buy a small farm in Tuscany.
The Inn at the farm in Tuscany would offer special reduced rates to Amish grandmothers and supply the chicken and cream. They would have bring their own dumplings.
The Amish have a unique piece of advice to offer young men who plan to marry, on choosing a spouse. "Kissing don't last, cooking do!".
For a young lady to follow this advice, she would have to marry a Basque man. For women are not allowed in a Basque kitchen. Men do all of the cooking and, seeing that the dirty dishes are all in the kitchen, this might be a piece of advice to follow.