Mile High Guy and I awoke this morning to see huge, fat snowflakes falling--nay, hurtling--from solid grey skies over Denver. It was 75 yesterday, FYI. Which is nice, because at least that means that the snow isn't sticking to roads and sidewalks. Cars drive by with a slushing sound instead of a muffled crunching sound, which is a relief to me today. I'm going over to Dame Judith's house today to help her out with a few things, then over to the eye doctor to get a checkup and another year's worth of contact lenses. And since my Southern ass shouldn't be driving in snow, it's nice to know that the roads are failry clear.
Upon seeing this weather, I arose and made coffee (Vanilla Hazelnut from Einstein's), looked into the freezer...and decided it was time. It was Time to Make Grits. My sister, Miss Kitty, gave me a cloth bag full of stone-ground grits--just plain ground-up corn--with directions how to cook 'em properly. As it was stated in My Cousin Vinny, no self-respecting Southerner uses instant grits. And I'm no exception. I make my own buttermilk biscuits, my own whipped cream, and my own grits, dammit. So, I'm rinsing the grits, pouring up water, boiling them, simmering them, and then Guy the Unenlightened Native St. Louisian comes in and says, "What's that?"
"Them's grits," I replied as I cut up sausage from a roll.
Guy looked like a golden retriever doing calculus at the stove. "What's up with the grits?"
I responded with semi-mock surprise. "Whaddya mean, what's up with the grits? I'm fixing you a Southern breakfast! Eggs, sausage, and GRITS!" Guy rolled his eyes, sighed, and returned to the living room to read the Sunday Denver Post.
Oh, y'all. My grits simmered for half an hour, barely pop-bubbling by the end. They were thick, bloopy but not dribbly. I let out a Jerry Clower-esque yell. "Oh, honeh! I think these may be the Finest Grits in the World!!" I shouted to Guy.
Guy strolled into the kitchen. "As if I'd know a damn thing about grits," came his reply. I planted my hands on my hips. "Just yell like you're in heaven when you eat them," I retorted. "Anything less and you're sleeping on the sofa."
They were indeed the Finest Grits in the World. A little butter, salt, and pepper made them perfectly Pixielicious. Guy even made some noise like he enjoyed them. They were at least edible to him, as he polished his off without gagging. But oh, was a shorty in heaven with her proper grits. I might have the sunzabitches for dinner this week too, they were that good.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
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6 comments:
It sounds like you know how to make proper grits, from the criterion of my childhood in SE Virginia. Not watery, with proper condiments. The next step is to pan-fry the left-overs in patties for Sunday lunch.
LinguistFriend
Even I, the dyed in the wool Westerner, likes grits if they're done right. Nice work, Pixie!
And to think you fed me nary a grit during my visit. [shaking head] Mm-mm-mm.
I think Guy needed some old-fashioned Southern country ham, or maybe some sawmill or tomato gravy, to top off the Southern breakfast. Or shrimp-n-grits for a Lowcountry breakfast.
I was born in Philadelphia but have lived in the South for 30 years. There are many fine southern foods that I really enjoy, but I don't like grits or boiled peanuts at all.
My mom, an Oklahoma native, included sorghum syrup on the menu on the rare occasions she made grits. Not that that was the only time sorghum showed up...
"Haaaaahhhhh! Knock 'im out, John!"
There's your Clower-esque yell.
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