My sad search for a recipe isn't the point of this post. Rather it's my Grandparents. Grandpa had a big garden and though I don't remember beet upon the table, as I do the tomatoes and onions, I am sure they were there. A grainy snap shot exists only in my mind of my brother and I scrubbing while squatting on the aged concrete stoop outside the kitchen door. It was shaded by the most beautiful maple tree. I took the job seriously then and it's still my favorite part today.
The rest of my story, well, there really isn't one. Simply the memory of scrubbing beets for Grandma.
Ultimately, I think it's a comment on what one remembers. The random and pedestrian locked in frozen moments. As I grow older, I wonder why they've stuck.
The moral of my un-story? Memories aren't always of Disney Land, electronics and extravagant vacations.
Some times they are just in a pot of beets.