Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth

In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.

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In Praise of Naked Grits

 

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?

 

What's more American than corn, gift of Mother America herself? They say that, back in the dawn of days, she first made humanity from ears of corn.

In our day, She still does.

 

Hey, pass those grits over before they get cold, would you?

Hoo-boy, that's some kind of good.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Tagged in: america corn
Poet, scholar and storyteller Steven Posch was raised in the hardwood forests of western Pennsylvania by white-tailed deer. (That's the story, anyway.) He emigrated to Paganistan in 1979 and by sheer dint of personality has become one of Lake Country's foremost men-in-black. He is current keeper of the Minnesota Ooser.

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