In every southerner's life, there comes a seminal moment when they taste their first helping of grits.
Gustatorially, it is a pivotal moment. Will the first timer get grits at the proper temperature and consistency that he is willing to keep them on his tongue long enough to find the hidden sweetness of the corn. Or will the preparation result in either goopy, sloppy, soupy grits that bring to mind gruel or the equally disastrous chunky, clumpy, gunky sludge often seen at church breakfasts run by old men who've lost their sense of taste and their will to enjoy life's pleasures?
Grits are like a shooting star. You have to be int eh right place at the right time to experience the magic. One second too early or one second too late and you miss the magic...left instead with the epicurean equivalent of outer space - cold and lonely.
And lest you effete snobs from places other than the South (whom I all dearly love) have never experienced truly remarkable grits, let's just say that you may be mistaken. Other cultures call these grits posole or polenta. Sure, it may be ground more finely or seasoned differently but they all spring from a corn kernel.
So, I want to thank the chef at Little Professor Bookstore in Homewood, Alabama (www.littleprofessor.com/homewood) for doing right by Jack.
It was a little touch and go at first because Grandpa went right in with a spoonful, which due to temperature issues, Jack popped right back out onto his shirt. After 90 seconds we tried again and you could have heard the angels singing in the back of Jack's mouth.
Did he like 'em? Yeah, he sure did. At first he was satisfied with Grandpa shoveling them in as fast as he could load up the spoon, but Jack soon took over by reaching onto my plate and manhandling big gobs of grits into his mouth.
I was so proud!
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