Kitchen Kettle Village, Lancaster, PA

On a trip through the gentle countryside of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. I found myself drawn to the charming embrace of Kitchen Kettle Village, nestled in the heart of Intercourse, PA (Yes, that is the name of the town). It is a delightful haven, a tapestry of quaint shops, cozy eateries, and the soft hum of hospitality that invites both the curious traveler and the returning friend. Founded with a deep respect for Pennsylvania Dutch heritage, it beckons with over 40 little stores brimming with artisanal foods, handmade wares, and treasures from days gone by.
Though the village was lively, filled with the bustle of visitors, I found pockets of serenity where I could pause, breathe, and capture the timeless beauty in the quiet moments between the hum of life. The day was bright, and the village shimmered with the warmth of its past.

In Lancaster County, the quiet hum of horse-drawn buggies is woven into the very fabric of the landscape. Everywhere you turn, there’s a place for these timeless vehicles to rest—buggy parking, as commonplace as automobile parking. It’s a gentle reminder of a life lived at a slower, more deliberate pace. And oh, how well those buggies are cared for! Polished and sturdy, their polished wooden wheels gleam in the soft light, a reflection of the meticulous care and reverence with which they are tended. It’s as if the buggies themselves are not just modes of transportation, but cherished family heirlooms, lovingly preserved for the generations to come.

One shop was filled with an array of rugs in every imaginable color and size, each one a unique reflection of its maker’s hands and heart. Some were small enough to frame a door or a hearth, their vibrant hues of deep cranberry, mustard, and emerald calling to mind cozy rooms and the warmth of home. Others were grander, large enough to anchor an entire room, their patterns sprawling out like tapestries telling stories of generations past. Each rug seemed to have its own personality—some bold and striking, others soft and understated, but all of them rich with the promise of comfort and tradition.
The colors were like a painter’s palette, with the natural earth tones of the countryside blending seamlessly with more cheerful, brighter shades, as if capturing the very essence of the seasons themselves. The wool, whether deep and muted or light and airy, invited you to imagine the spaces they would fill, the footsteps they would greet, and the quiet moments they would cradle. Together, they formed a patchwork of the old and the new, a reminder that even in a world that moves too fast, some things—like these country rugs—remain steadfast, a grounding presence in the ever-changing flow of life.

I discovered a collection of white flower pots, their simple elegance enhanced by black trim, creating a striking contrast against the soft, muted white. A black spout was attached to the top each pot, adding a touch of unexpected whimsy. It was as if the spouts were meant to carry something beyond the ordinary—a secret of the garden, a small yet intriguing detail that set these pots apart.
Surrounding them were tin pots, their surfaces kissed by time, with the faintest hint of aged white paint peeling gently at the edges. These pots, though weathered, had a quiet beauty, their well-worn patina telling stories of seasons gone by. The pots were perfectly imperfect, each one unique in its own subtle way.Together, the white flower pots with their black trim and the tin pots with their vintage charm created a delightful pairing, like an old friendship that had been forged over years of shared moments in the garden. There was something about them that felt timeless, a perfect harmony between the rustic and the refined, inviting you to imagine them nestled in the heart of a garden, or perched by a window sill, holding flowers that would bloom as beautifully as the stories they whispered.

I wandered into The Olive Basin, an olive oil taproom that felt like a hidden gem, tucked away with its promise of sensory delights. The air was rich with the aroma of premium extra virgin olive oils and balsamic vinegars, each offering a distinct story of flavor. With 40 varieties to choose from, it was a paradise for the discerning palate, a place where the essence of each oil and vinegar was bottled fresh on-site, ready to tell its tale of sun-kissed orchards and time-honored craftsmanship.
Though I couldn’t indulge in the tastings, as the dipping bread and I share a complicated relationship due to my gluten-free lifestyle, I could imagine the joy of sampling such a fine selection. The rows of gleaming bottles stood proudly on the shelves, each one waiting to be opened, each one offering the promise of flavor as rich and vibrant as the land from which it came. The balsamic vinegars, too, seemed to hold their own mysteries, their deep, dark hues inviting a sense of indulgence, their complex, tangy notes lingering like a secret on the tongue.
As I walked through the shop, I could almost taste the history and care infused in every bottle. It was a place where each pour, each drop, was a celebration of nature’s bounty, a reminder that even in the simplest of ingredients, there is a world of wonder waiting to be discovered.

As I stood before the display at the Bake Shop in Intercourse, PA, the Peach Streusel Bread beckoned me with its golden crust, a sweet promise of warm, spiced perfection nestled beneath a crumble of buttery streusel. The fragrance alone was enough to tempt me, to make me wonder if just this once, I could set aside my commitment to gluten-free living. After all, if I were to break the rule for anything, surely it would be for a slice of this—its peaches glistening in the soft light, the streusel topping hinting at the perfect balance of sweet and savory.
But no, I reminded myself. This wasn’t the moment. I could wait. There would come a time and place when I could truly savor such a treat—where it wasn’t just about the taste, but about the whole experience. So, I resisted. And in the end, I was glad I did. When I finally allowed myself that indulgence, it was in Little Italy, Baltimore. The atmosphere was alive with warmth, and the joy of that first bite of warm bread made the wait worthwhile. It was the kind of sweet, indulgent pleasure that felt earned—a moment that was truly worth it.

One of the most enchanting sights at Kitchen Kettle is the opportunity to watch Amish and Mennonite women, with hands worn but steady, crafting jams and jellies. Their movements are an art, a reverence to tradition, a celebration of simplicity. Out of respect for their beliefs, I refrained from capturing their image, for they do not partake in the taking of photographs, honoring their faith’s prohibition of “engraven images.” Instead, I held the moment in my heart, knowing that some images are best preserved in the soul.
As I stood in the Jam and Jelly Kitchen in Intercourse, PA, my eyes were drawn to a jar of apple butter, its deep amber glow pulling me in like a whisper from the past. I used to make apple butter myself, years ago, when I still had the energy to spend hours in the kitchen, carefully preparing and canning the sweet, spiced delight. The process was slow and soothing—slicing apples, simmering them gently, the fragrance of cinnamon and cloves filling the air. But that was before chronic illness took so many things from me, including the joy of canning.
The act of preserving food, of making something from scratch and bottling it for later, had once been one of my favorite rituals. It was a link to my past, to simpler days when I could move freely, when time in the kitchen felt like an indulgence, not a burden. But as illness tightened its grip, that tradition slipped away, like so many other things.
Standing there, gazing at the jar of apple butter, I was reminded of what I had lost. Not just the act of canning, but the feeling of satisfaction that came with it—the quiet pride of seeing rows of jars, each one a little piece of homemade goodness, preserved for a time when I couldn’t make them myself. The apple butter in my hands wasn’t just a product; it was a reminder of what had once been part of my life, a connection to the past that I had to let go of, but had never really forgotten.
Maybe one day, I thought, I could return to that tradition—just as I had returned to the simple pleasure of this jar. But for now, it was enough to hold it in my hands, a small reminder that even though chronic illness had taken much, some things—like memories and the simple joy of a well-made jar of apple butter—could still find their way back to me.

I wandered into the yarn shop, a cozy haven filled with the soft hum of creativity. The shelves were lined with skeins of vibrant yarn in every color, a spectrum of possibilities waiting to be turned into something beautiful. The air smelled faintly of wool, and as I touched the fibers, I was reminded of the joy I once found in the art of knitting and crocheting.
I used to spend hours with my hands tangled in yarn, turning simple strands into intricate patterns. One project that stood out was a half-finished afghan I had started, each row a labor of love. The colors I’d chosen—pastel hues of cream, pink, and green—felt like they were woven with my own hopes and dreams. But then, as chronic illness began to take over my life, the simple act of finishing that afghan, of wrapping myself in the warmth of my own creation, slipped further and further away. It became one of those things on a long list of unfinished projects, pushed aside by the weight of exhaustion and pain, so far out of reach that I couldn’t see the end anymore.
I eventually gave it away. The afghan, still incomplete, became someone else’s project, a gift of sorts, though it never felt like I was giving it fully. It felt like a piece of me was being left behind, unfinished. Someone else, with hands steadier than mine, finished the work. They saw it through to the end, completing the rows I had started, bringing to life the piece that I had once dreamed of completing myself.
As I stood in the yarn shop, surrounded by the colors and textures that once brought me so much joy, I felt a quiet pang of loss. Chronic illness had stolen so many things from me—moments of creation, of making something with my own hands, of completing something that had once meant so much. But as I ran my fingers over the soft skeins of yarn, I realized that though some projects remain unfinished, they don’t lose their meaning. My afghan, though completed by another, still carried my spirit in every stitch. And maybe, just maybe, the yarn shop and the possibility of starting something new could be a reminder that even when life makes us put things down, there is always room to pick something else up.

Kitchen Kettle Village in Intercourse, PA
When my daughter visited Intercourse, PA on a 4-H trip a few years earlier, she couldn’t resist buying a shirt that boldly declared, I ❤️ Intercourse, PA. To her, it seemed like a harmless souvenir, a quirky memento from a small town with a unique name that would make people smile. But her 4-H leader, a bit more traditional in his thinking, wasn’t quite as amused.
To my daughter, it was all in good fun, a playful nod to the town’s name and its charm. But to her leader, it felt a little too much. It’s funny how something so simple can carry such different meanings, depending on who’s looking. In the end, my daughter wore it with pride as she exited the plane on her return hoe, embracing the humor of it all. And I couldn’t help but laugh, knowing that the shirt would always serve as a reminder of that trip and the way a small town like Intercourse, PA, could leave such an impression—both on the heart and on the shirt!
That experience, a bit of innocent mischief, reminds me of how travel can introduce us to moments that challenge our perspective or spark a little joy in the unexpected. Just like the adventures I’ve had in places like Lancaster County, those moments, though small, make up the colorful tapestry of life and memories we carry with us.
I now found myself loving (❤️) Intercourse, PA.

Accessibility
- I had no time navigating things with my cane and it seemed all buildings were wheelchair accessible.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Leisa Watkins is the founder of Cultivate An Exceptional Life. She believes life is meant to be enjoyed and experienced in abundance. She is on a mission to help people break through barriers, build resilience, and avoid roadblocks in life while creating a life they love - despite chronic illness, trauma, and other life challenges. She also shares tips on getting more out of life, despite its challenges, on our Instagram channel. Please follow us.
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