when I was a kid I spent a lot of time with my Grandparents, Bob and Marty Platzer. My parents worked a lot so my Grandparents became my surrogate parents. I am who I am today because of them, I would say they fed me and nurtured me in many different ways. But I still to this day remember the smell of the kitchen and the rainbows made from the mist of the watering hose when my Grandpa watered his vegetable garden.
This story begins in a place called Lyons Colorado, but I like to call it Monster Mountain. I was about four. I remember the drive that my Mother and I took around three days a week, winding up highway seven into the rough sandy mountains of Lyons. I would think about the mountains and their mysteries, Hobbits, Goblins, my Grandpa's stories and my Grandma's food. You could smell her food from a mile away, she was the cook and he was the honky tonker.
My Grandfather and I would sit on the old saw horse in the back yard, he had a fair amount of land and he was, and still is an amazing gardener. I would watch him water his vegetables and ask him questions about corn and spinach and he would laugh and answer my childlike queries. He would tell me about the mountains and we would name them while eating fresh raspberries off the berry bushes. There were small mountains we called things like, "turtle mountain", "rabbit mountain" and of course "lonely mountain". The big one that they lived by was called monster mountain. In the afternoons my Grandpa would take me what he called "Honky Tonkin", what it really was was me eating a smothered burrito and drinking a Shirley temple while he sipped a beer and told me stories while I listened intently wide eyed and gullible. I still love to eat smothered burritos and Shirley temples today.
My Grandmother was always either at work or in the kitchen. She was of German decent and boy could she cook. Some of my favorites were sour kraut, stollen bread and lebkuchen cookies. I remember her and Grandpa would make homemade cole slaw and beets, you wouldn't think a little kid would eat that, but I did and I loved it, I still do. Grandma always bought Claussen Pickles. I would ask her, "why are they so good"? She would always reply, "because they are blessed by the Rabbi". I still say that whenever someone asks me why the jar of pickles in my refrigerator is so wonderful, they are the only ones that I buy.
After a few years my Grandparents moved down to boulder. My Grandfather made the back yard into a wonderland of flower gardens, vegetable gardens and fruit trees and my Grandmother continued rolling her dough and filling the house up with the smell of food, the smell of love, the smell of home. I visited often still in my pre teens and teens, still listing to Grandpas stories and gazing at him from across the yard as he watered his plants. I remember on one occasion I was reprimanded by him for eating all (yes every single one) of the raspberries off his raspberry bushes. He was angry, but he couldn't help but laugh. I still eat whole containers of raspberries and giggle to myself about that day. I remember sitting at the dinning room table in front of a plate of homemade Bavarian sour kraut refusing to eat it. My Grandmother made me sit there till I tried at least one bite, I ate three helpings of it after my one bite. I still make it, but it doesn't taste quite the same.
Holidays were something to brag about in my family. When I was a kid almost the whole family lived in Colorado, so we would have a huge Christmas and Grandma would do all the cooking. Everyone would talk over each other and pass the platters of love all around the table.
This story ends in Boulder Colorado nine years ago. My Grandmother died of cancer. My Grandpa moved to Broomfield to a retirement community and lives there today. But we still have our big Christmas and everyone brings one of Grandma's specialties. When you walk through the door the smell hits you, the smell of food, the smell of love, the smell of home. You can hear everyone talking over each other. I still make sour kraut and beets with cole slaw.
This story begins in a place called Lyons Colorado, but I like to call it Monster Mountain. I was about four. I remember the drive that my Mother and I took around three days a week, winding up highway seven into the rough sandy mountains of Lyons. I would think about the mountains and their mysteries, Hobbits, Goblins, my Grandpa's stories and my Grandma's food. You could smell her food from a mile away, she was the cook and he was the honky tonker.
My Grandfather and I would sit on the old saw horse in the back yard, he had a fair amount of land and he was, and still is an amazing gardener. I would watch him water his vegetables and ask him questions about corn and spinach and he would laugh and answer my childlike queries. He would tell me about the mountains and we would name them while eating fresh raspberries off the berry bushes. There were small mountains we called things like, "turtle mountain", "rabbit mountain" and of course "lonely mountain". The big one that they lived by was called monster mountain. In the afternoons my Grandpa would take me what he called "Honky Tonkin", what it really was was me eating a smothered burrito and drinking a Shirley temple while he sipped a beer and told me stories while I listened intently wide eyed and gullible. I still love to eat smothered burritos and Shirley temples today.
My Grandmother was always either at work or in the kitchen. She was of German decent and boy could she cook. Some of my favorites were sour kraut, stollen bread and lebkuchen cookies. I remember her and Grandpa would make homemade cole slaw and beets, you wouldn't think a little kid would eat that, but I did and I loved it, I still do. Grandma always bought Claussen Pickles. I would ask her, "why are they so good"? She would always reply, "because they are blessed by the Rabbi". I still say that whenever someone asks me why the jar of pickles in my refrigerator is so wonderful, they are the only ones that I buy.
After a few years my Grandparents moved down to boulder. My Grandfather made the back yard into a wonderland of flower gardens, vegetable gardens and fruit trees and my Grandmother continued rolling her dough and filling the house up with the smell of food, the smell of love, the smell of home. I visited often still in my pre teens and teens, still listing to Grandpas stories and gazing at him from across the yard as he watered his plants. I remember on one occasion I was reprimanded by him for eating all (yes every single one) of the raspberries off his raspberry bushes. He was angry, but he couldn't help but laugh. I still eat whole containers of raspberries and giggle to myself about that day. I remember sitting at the dinning room table in front of a plate of homemade Bavarian sour kraut refusing to eat it. My Grandmother made me sit there till I tried at least one bite, I ate three helpings of it after my one bite. I still make it, but it doesn't taste quite the same.
Holidays were something to brag about in my family. When I was a kid almost the whole family lived in Colorado, so we would have a huge Christmas and Grandma would do all the cooking. Everyone would talk over each other and pass the platters of love all around the table.
This story ends in Boulder Colorado nine years ago. My Grandmother died of cancer. My Grandpa moved to Broomfield to a retirement community and lives there today. But we still have our big Christmas and everyone brings one of Grandma's specialties. When you walk through the door the smell hits you, the smell of food, the smell of love, the smell of home. You can hear everyone talking over each other. I still make sour kraut and beets with cole slaw.
-Dedicated to my much loved grandmother Martha Platzer-
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