Grits and other such ramblings.
Grits-real homemade, homestyle, deep South grits-are sheer edible perfection ground down to bits and served at the heavenly ratio of precisely one part grit to one part butter. In just one succulent, god-crafted bite, my childhood spent tug-of-warred between the affections of two downsouth grammas comes creeping up below my eyelids, soft and warm on tongue and heart.
In the Carolina foothills, Mema was always ready with a tub of her magic peanut butter chocolate fudge and a heaping plate of chick'n n dumplins, rice, and grits leftover from breakfast; her breath when she came close to pinch my cheek and call me darlin' was light and sweet like the honeysuckle blossoms we sucked on our way down to the stream beyond the woods. In summer the supply of grits and fudgesicles was nothing short of limitless; we'd climb up and down the treehouse ladder to spy on the neighbors until the heat shimmered in the late afternoon light, and then we took turns in the hammock to wait for the sun to slip away and the lightning bugs to come out to tease us until we'd give up chasing and go on inside to hear stories about how Mema brushed her teeth with Coca-Cola during the war since the water tasted so nasty. In the morning it was more grits, more trampling up and down Granddad's shrubs to sneak fudge and sweet tea, and more dumplins than could rightfully fit into two little girls and one baby boy.
Born and bred in Florida, Gran-Gran was a Southern belle without the accent; lipstick perfect, apron spotless even while making gravy and cookies, kitchen full of irresistible smells at the exact same times every day, but little patience for hungry, fidgety children. Each Saturday when we stayed over she'd send us out back to play by the lake, and we'd run barefoot down the splintery dock to dip our feet and the cattails Paw-Paw cut with his pocket knife into the water so at every turtle nose that popped up along the shore we could gasp and giggle and run screaming 'Gator! and scare the neighbors fishing on their docks. After dinner and dessert we'd drag ourselves off to the guest bedroom to read Nancy Drew until the flashlight burned out. Breakfast Sunday morning was worth the rest of the day filled with angry Baptist preachers and Sunday school teachers; Gran-Gran's grits weren't as soft or melt-in-your-mouthy as Mema's, but the thick-sliced fatty bacon and eggs all chopped up and mixed in made them absolutely perfect.
In short, grits are irrefutable perfection and should be deified. ♥
In the Carolina foothills, Mema was always ready with a tub of her magic peanut butter chocolate fudge and a heaping plate of chick'n n dumplins, rice, and grits leftover from breakfast; her breath when she came close to pinch my cheek and call me darlin' was light and sweet like the honeysuckle blossoms we sucked on our way down to the stream beyond the woods. In summer the supply of grits and fudgesicles was nothing short of limitless; we'd climb up and down the treehouse ladder to spy on the neighbors until the heat shimmered in the late afternoon light, and then we took turns in the hammock to wait for the sun to slip away and the lightning bugs to come out to tease us until we'd give up chasing and go on inside to hear stories about how Mema brushed her teeth with Coca-Cola during the war since the water tasted so nasty. In the morning it was more grits, more trampling up and down Granddad's shrubs to sneak fudge and sweet tea, and more dumplins than could rightfully fit into two little girls and one baby boy.
Born and bred in Florida, Gran-Gran was a Southern belle without the accent; lipstick perfect, apron spotless even while making gravy and cookies, kitchen full of irresistible smells at the exact same times every day, but little patience for hungry, fidgety children. Each Saturday when we stayed over she'd send us out back to play by the lake, and we'd run barefoot down the splintery dock to dip our feet and the cattails Paw-Paw cut with his pocket knife into the water so at every turtle nose that popped up along the shore we could gasp and giggle and run screaming 'Gator! and scare the neighbors fishing on their docks. After dinner and dessert we'd drag ourselves off to the guest bedroom to read Nancy Drew until the flashlight burned out. Breakfast Sunday morning was worth the rest of the day filled with angry Baptist preachers and Sunday school teachers; Gran-Gran's grits weren't as soft or melt-in-your-mouthy as Mema's, but the thick-sliced fatty bacon and eggs all chopped up and mixed in made them absolutely perfect.
In short, grits are irrefutable perfection and should be deified. ♥