When I was a kid I spent a good measure of my 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 partly because of them and my relationship with food was greatly influenced by them. I would say the fed me and nurtured me in many different ways. but I still to this day remember the smell of the kitchen. I remember the rainbows made from 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 around four years old, I remember the drive up highway seven into the rough sand mountains that my Mother and I took at least three times a week. I would day dream about the mysteries of the mountains, imagining Hobbits and Goblins searching for magic rings. I would look forward to my Grandfathers stories and my Grandmothers food. You could smell Grandma's food from a mile away, she was the cook and he was the honky tonker.
My Grandfather and I would sit on an old saw horse in the back yard, he had a fair amount of land and he was, and still is an amazing Gardner. I would watch him water his vegetables and ask him questions about corn and spinach, he would laugh and answer my childlike queries. He told me about the mountains and the magic that lived in them and we would name them wile 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 protected the little valley in which our little farm house dwelled we 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; I would listen intently wide eyed and gullible. I still love to eat smothered burritos and drink 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 were 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 will 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. My Grandmother continued rolling her dough and filling the house up with the smell of food, the smell of love and the smell of home. I visited often still. Still listening to Grandpa's 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 the 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 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. We would all eat as much as we could stand and slip into a food coma afterwards already looking forward to next year.
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 still 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 and the smell of home. You can hear everyone talking over each other and the platters make there rounds. Sometimes I drive up to Lyons and drive past that old house, smiling with a tear in my eye and tip my hat to the cook and the honky tonker of Monster Mountain.
-Dedicated to my much loved Grandmother Martha Platzer-
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