Recently, I was struck with a rare craving for a bowl of grits, boiled on the stove the way they do in diners below the Mason-Dixon line, with some butter and salt and pepper. Bargain-savvy as I am, I decided to buy the economy-sized tub of Quaker quick grits, rather than the smaller, less cost-effective box. Proud of myself for figuring out such a great deal, I trotted home with grits in tow and cooked myself a bowl.
I had eaten a bowl of grits for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and breakfast again when I realized that I was stuck with the rest of this huge tub, and that there was no way I could stomach any more of the mushy grains. I forgot, I hate grits!
I'm the type of guy who can't throw stuff away so I needed a way to spruce these grits. And who better to consult than my raised-in-the-South assistant, Emily.
"Emily... fix my grits?" I pleaded.
