For years, I thought that I didn't like grits.
I was wrong, of course.
By grits, of course, I mean corn grits.
Technically, you can make grits from any kind of grain—the word itself refers to a specific kind of coarse grind, no more—but when an American says grits, it can only mean one kind.
Just as the word deer, which used to mean any wild animal, has now come to mean the animal par excellence, the paradigmatic American Animal of Animals, so too has corn, which used to mean any kind of grain, come to mean the paradigmatic American Grain of Grains.
Corn and venison, that's our food.
(My friend Craig, who comes from Texas originally, assures me that grits is properly a three-syllable word: guh-REE-yuts; but maybe he's just joking.)
I was wrong, of course. (How could you not like grits?) What I didn't like was what people add to grits.
Cheese grits: yuck. Way too rich.
Garlic grits: yuck. Completely takes over.
Not to mention all the (shudder) nasty, stinky butter that folks ladle over grits to give them flavor. Triple yuck. (Makes sign of aversion.)
Yes, I thought that I didn't like grits until the day that I first had grits at their minimalist best: no butter, no cheese, no garlic. Naked grits. Water, grits, and salt, toute simple.
Oh joy, O rapture.
That delicate corn flavor, that lovely, nubbly texture: nothing fills or warms you better on a cold winter's morning than a nice bowl of grits. A little salt, a little pepper: for gods' sakes, don't pollute them with anything else. Really, what more do they need?
