Grits

I was thinking about grits the other day. I thought about eating grits at my grandmother’s house when we were all there. I remember my uncle Bill teasing my wife because her’s (her grits) were too thin. He said you could eat them through a straw. She makes them just right now: thick and with just enough salt. He put sugar on his. I loved Bill, but sugar on grits, in my mind, is just not right.

I was thinking that it would be neat to open a place and sell nothing but grits. I would call it, uh, Grits. I would have a grits buffet - grits and all the toppings. Butter (for the stout-hearted) and margarine (for the dainties) and cheese and bacon and country ham and red-eye gravy and salmon patties and grilled shrimp and sardines and buttered toasted biscuits with jelly and cane syrup to go along with it all.

Well, wouldn’t you know it, but down in Louisiana the other day what should I read about but grits buffets. The article was in the lifestyles section of the paper and it seems that grits buffets are all the rage now for parties and entertaining among those in the know in Baton Rouge. See, I’m not out of touch.

Grits. It will take the country, heck, the world by storm. I will become rich and famous - an entrepreneurial guru. People will come to me for wisdom and advice and - grits. And I will not forget my humble beginnings nor the advice of my uncle Bill: make them thick enough to stand a spoon up in.