Well, I guess it is official. I seemed to have relinquished my mid-western and south-western selves, and I have gone full-bore southern. I had grits for breakfast this morning, y’all. Not just any grits. Not the Quaker grits of any type—quick or otherwise. I fixed Trader Joe’s Stone Ground White Grits in the beautifully decorated black and white package. As promised by T.J.’s, they were worth the 25 minute cook-time wait.
I am not a good waiter. I pace. I read. I check the weather. I check my email. I even take photos. Sometimes it gets really drastic, and I clean. This morning, I did all of the above while I waited for my grits to cook, and I wondered why I wanted grits for breakfast. I wondered why I even bought these grits.
The first time I ate grits, I was 16 years old. I was on the road trip which relocated us from Indiana to North Carolina with my mom, step-dad, and little brother. We spent the night in West Virginia, and had breakfast in a small mountainside café. In those days, any southern restaurant meal would come with grits as a side dish no matter the time of day or the type of food.
I thought about this as I fussed and waited for this slow cooking porridge. We have had much needed rain for the past five days. It is pretty dreary looking outside. It is autumn. I guess I just wanted some comfort food, and the good kind. Some people put sugar on their grits, but I can’t bring myself to do that. I just had a hot, creamy serving topped with butter and salt and pepper. I won’t be waiting for grits too often, but I am glad I did this morning.