As ya’ll know, I am a southerner born and breed. I even have a southern name – Elizabeth Ann – pronounced ‘Liz’beth Annn. My affliction is that, although my husband’s family resided in Kentucky, he was delivered in Ohio. I know. I should have thought to ask where he was born in addition to where his people are from.
The result is that by breathing the Northern air first he doesn’t like grits. Gasp. It is an affliction I have born with sad resolve.
However, it seems that the mutation that occurred with his first breath continues. AV born in South Carolina has a tolerance for grits. He does like Southern ham and red-eye gravy. Now with the second child the debate whether Florida is actually part of the South has been settled. JV, born in FL, refuses any entirety to eat grits. Not only that. He refuses to eat country ham – sugar cured, red-eye, smoke house ham. Therefore Florida is not part of the South. It is something more powerful than just the North; it is the Anti-South. Shudder.
I thought all hope was lost for enjoying the sharing of Southern cooking in my household. But today. BR was over to begin his project with us. We had buttermilk biscuits (cut with my grandmother’s biscuit cutter) with fried ham for lunch. BR declared his deep and abiding love for the ham. He went for seconds and thirds. We have Southern in my house. He’s not had grits before. We are going to try grits with red-eye gravy (by that I mean real southern grits) next week. Sigh of hopeful contentment.
The Inclusive Atrium 