Did I ever tell my grits story?
I was about 8 and my folks threw my sibs & me in the Dodge Dart and headed out through the deep south to Cocoa Beach Florida.
We stopped at a diner for breakfast in some dirty little town in Mississippi, Alabama or Georgia.
I ordered bacon, eggs and toast and the waitress who was voluptuous said, “you want grits with that, darlin?” And I was enchanted. She could’ve said “you want dog shit with that, darlin?” And I would’ve said yes.
My parents went ape shit. That extra 30 cents apparently screwed up our travel budget. They were like, grits? We don’t eat grits. You ain’t never had grits. You won’t like grits. You better eat every damn bite.
I learned a lot about grits, southerners, women and particularly southern women.
I don’t like grits. I’m not a southerner and I don’t trust women. And women with southern accents make me want to barf.