Grist for the mill

I like grits more ways than Bubba prepares shrimp. Before I can remember (says Mom) grits have been a staple of my diet.

Although a connoisseur, I’m not one of those high-falutin’, upper-crust, pour me another mint julep, grit eater. (Is it grit eater or grits eater?) Anyway, you know the ones. Their grits have to be old-fashioned or none at all. To those in San Francisco, old-fashioned means 20 minutes from boil to bowl.

Being raised on this hominy from heaven, I’ve had them quick, instant, and of course old-fashioned. And I love ‘um all. I’m in favor of coming up with a fourth type, when instant isn’t fast enough, how about we invent a method called, “suddenly grits.” A man can dream can’t he?

Grits, the porridge of the gods, have come a long way baby, but not far enough in my book. When my wife and I travel we often look for different places to eat. Once the conversation turns to breakfast, the first thing I say is, “Do you think they have them?” I don’t have to say what, “them” is.

She plays along, but I can feel her eyes roll, even though she’s looking straight ahead. I can’t describe the uneasiness when we pull into an unfamiliar restaurant. Stepping inside, I do a quick inventory of other patron’s plates. Fear strikes from the bottom of my belly to the tip of my taste-buds when all I see are, potatoes. Potatoes, the dumbest of all the starches!

The steps continued without a grit in view. In my mind I’m sizing up the customers, Yankee, Canadian, foreigner, and so forth, trying to give my nervous system some form of comfort and hope.

My wife could sense the agitation and gave me a reassuring glance. We sat down and I couldn't open the menu fast enough. My eyes raced to the side dishes, (a simple trick discovered in my youth.)

I saw hash browns, egg, bacon, sausage, pancake, oatmeal, cereal, and scrapple. My mouth became dry, cold sweat rolled down flush cheeks; the word scrapple said it all. I’m in a grit loathed restaurant. Suddenly, I felt naked, almost being ridiculed for who I am and what I believe in.

Immediately this turned into my wife’s fault.

“It’s not on the menu,” I snap. “I don’t know why you wanted to eat here.”

She ignored this; we’ve been married a long time and she’s all too familiar with the routine.

“Ask the waitress, they might not be on the menu,” she said.

The fact that I had to lower myself and ask such a question was an insult to me and likeminded people beholden to Grits Nation.

Before the waitress came up, my eyes shifted to all the traders enjoying their potatoes. Suddenly, I’m suspicious of everyone and everything. My wife was even eying something on the menu that involved potatoes. Hallucinations set in; people were pointing at me and laughing while stuffing their mouths with potatoes. Giant potatoes rolled down the aisles. Waitresses brought out plates and plates of potatoes and potatoes. Mr. Potato Head appeared and high-five's the customers sitting across from me, all the while laughing and pointing.

A voice brought me out of this spud trance.

“Are you ready to order, sir?” the waitress said while standing over me.

Imagine how a 14 year old boy feels when asking the prettiest girl in class to his first dance. He knows the answer is no, but he has to give it a shot.

“Ah, do you… ah, I mean, ah, grits,” my wife interrupts because my voice was cracking just like the 14 year old boy.

“Do you have grits?” she said matter-of-fact, with confidence.

Silverware dropped throughout the restaurant; a busboy stuck his head around the corner. Conversations stopped and glasses fell silent on hushed tables.

“I don’t know,” the waitress said. “I’ll go ask.”

Now common sense told me, if she had to ask, she’s never served grits. But there was a chance, this could be her first day, and I could be her first customer, stranger things have happened.

I could tell by her curt walk back that the news was bad.

“We have hash browns,” she said.

My heart rate quicken, I’m ready to light into this waitress like Sherman went through Atlanta. I don’t recall my wife asking about hash browns. Was this some sort of twisted, “let them eat cake,” by the short-order cook?

Before I give her the “what for” my wife jumped in and placed her order.

“I’ll have the Junior Samples Special,” my bride said.

“You want hash browns with that,” Waitress Ratched said.

Avoiding eye contact with me, my wife of 20 years said, “Yes.”

A thousand daggers filled my soul; I’m all-alone with them. Somehow I’ve pulled into the town of Stepford and they have my wife.

I mumbled “I’ll have the pancake platter” knowing full well hash brows were not included. (Pancakes are always my backup plan to gritless grills)

“You want me to throw in a side of hash browns for ya, sweetie,” she said.

Now I knew I was being mocked. I saw the veiled smile on my wife’s face. Nothing will convince me otherwise. I tried to stay composed, but the vein in my neck told another story. Without hesitation, I calmly said, “No, just pancakes.”

Stories like the above have played out several times in my life and it’s about time this bigotry towards grits end.

Grits, the king of all carbohydrates, should never play second fiddle to the dimwitted potato. Oh, man tries to dress it up with onions and cheese, but it’s still a potato. It’s like putting lipstick on a pig.

I get so depressed when I go to the gas station. It’s not the price of gas that saddens my heart. It’s the 10% of ethanol that comes out of the hose. We kill grits by the boatload to fuel our cars. Despicable, you know it and I know it. We could easily make methanol out of potatoes. No home could be better for the tasteless tuber than inside my gas tank. If we must make ethanol, the swamp weed, sugarcane, is a better choice, not the proud corn and its gifted offspring, grits.

It’s a conspiracy I tell you. The self-righteous tater industry has hoodwinked us into believing grits are one-dimensional, only ambrosia for hayseeds and bumpkins.

I know what you’re thinking, “What idiot starts a war with Big-Potato?”

Well, this idiot does.

Grits, the sultan of corn, demands respect. Correct me if I’m wrong, I don’t recall a great grit famine. That’s right potato; you have a famine named after you.

Buy a potato and a bag of grits at the same time and then wait about six months. Would you eat the potato? Face it, grits could survive a nuclear blast and come out corn goodness every time.

Grits, the Chuck Norris of all dishes, laughs at the potato.

You say. “But Ron, I thought you loved French fries.”

Of course I do, its potatoes natural place, but anything taste good when it’s fried… especially grits. (touché my friend)

Like a slow poison dripping in, the potato is out to kill grits. But I say, not on my watch.
You may have noticed I can ramble on about grits, the gastronomic giant of all the grains. But time is short and the water is about to boil.

Just remember this, a grit by any other name…. Is a potato.

Up next, the plot against Krispy Kream by the evil Dunkin’ Donuts.


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