Kiss My Grits

A nice big bowl of grits is one of my favorite foods. I am from Western North Carolina, so grits always remind me of home and breakfast cooked by my mother, Sunday mornings with my family.

I like mine with cheese (has to be Velveeta), garlic salt, and pinch of paprika on top. Some people like theirs with butter and salt, jam, or honey. Personally, I prefer my grits to be under the savory category. I save the sweet for things like cinnamon buns and my mother's delectable Sweet Waffles. The cheese version is also good baked and served in squares alongside a couple sausage patties. Mom served that exact meal to some hungry prom-goers for a midnight breakfast when I was 16. I'm certain my friends also remember that meal with smile of satisfaction.

The key when preparing grits, is to be attentive. The heat should be low, so as to avoid a burnt layer on the bottom of the pan. Stand close to the stove, wooden spoon in hand, ready to smooth out any offending lumps that may appear. Good grits should be silky-smooth and creamy, the perfect canvas for whatever accoutrement one may fancy.

If I ever feel homesick, just the simple act of stirring little orange cubes of cheese into the bubbling liquid is cathartic. And sitting at the table, spoon poised over a bowl of the steaming, pale yellow goodness, is nothing short of pure bliss. It never ceases to amaze me how such a simple food can provide such a strong connection to family, contentment, and memories. Even when I am old, I will recall the contentment that came with a Pyrex dish filled with the magic cheese grits.

Monday by any other name...

You know it's going to be one doozy of a Monday when: your pants split straight up the butt after you've already locked the front door, you realize you forgot an important document at home after you've already arrived at work, and best of all...you find a pool of dog diarrhea on the carpet after you took the dog out for his morning constitutional.

Happily, the day did get better after the above trifecta of crap (literally). But I am glad that Mondays, or days like them, are only once a week. But believe me, I couldn't wait to crawl into bed that night, soak up some sleep, and open my eyes to a different day.