As I was growing up, my family spent many of our weekends at my grandparents home in a suburb of Milwaukee. We’d go and spend the night, and we’d somehow all fit into the old house that had been in my grandmother’s family for a couple of generations.
It was always a fun time for my siblings and me. We were the oldest set of grandchildren, and we commanded a lot of attention each and every weekend. My mother’s siblings varied in age, and my uncles were closer to my age than they were to my mother’s. It was like having two older brothers who’s sole reason for existance was to annoy their nieces to death.
My grandfather worked third shift at Schlitz Brewery. At one time or another, there were three generations of family working at the brewery. It was appropriate really, being a family of German descent living just outside of Milwaukee proper.
I know, you are wondering what on earth this has to do with food, right? Well, sometimes food is more about the tradition and memories than the food itself.
My Grandfather would get off work on Sunday mornings and come home while most people were still asleep. He’d gather my older sister and me and bundle us into his car, driving us to the neighborhood German bakery. This was always a coup, because my younger sister and brother never went – at least if they did, I sure don’t remember it.
I can still picture the bakery to this day. From the viewpoint of a 5 year old, it had high counters with glass windows that I just couldn’t see into, no matter how I tried. My grandfather would need to lift me up to show me all of the German pastries that were on the shelves.
And every Sunday, we did the same thing. We bought fresh butter, bags and bags of German hardrolls, a few cruellers, and warm, freshly baked ham, shaved to order. Then my grandfather would leave us hanging in suspense for a few minutes – would he buy us each a carton of chocolate milk, or not?
He bought us the milk every time. I don’t know why there was always such an element of suspense to each trip. But when you’re young and your life centers around cartons of chocolate milk, well, you can’t take anything for granted.
Then we’d get back into the car with our cruellers, ham and hard rolls, and head back to my grandparents house. The rest of the family would be awake by then, and we’d all sit down to the huge dining table and eat freshly baked ham on crusty hardrolls slathered with creamy butter. There was always a fight for the last dutchie crust roll.
Of everything from my childhood, it’s the Sunday mornings filled with a trip to the German bakery followed by the gathering family that I will always remember.
These days there’s a store here in town that serves up the freshly baked ham each Sunday morning. They even have dutchie crust hard rolls. I’ll pick them up on a whim and that’s what we’ll have for breakfast. The rolls aren’t as crusty, and the ham doesn’t smell nearly as good. The butter doesn’t seem as creamy and salty, and my annoying uncles aren’t there to make my life miserable. And I don’t buy myself chocolate milk.
Somehow it’s just not the same. But it doesn’t matter. It’s not about the food, it’s about the memories that come flooding back.
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