Kiss My Grits

Growing up north of the Mason-Dixon Line, grits were not something I encountered until I was an adult. Just the name conjured up the idea of a mouthful of sand at summer vacations at the shore. As distasteful as the thought, my first real experience with the southern staple wasn’t much better.

Working on a crew made up coworkers from the Gulf Coast (including the cafeteria staff), I queued up for breakfast our first morning on the jobsite. It had been a bone -chilling shift, kind of like how one would feel after standing out at a winter farmers market in January. Miserably, I shuffled through the line and welcomed what I thought was Cream of Wheat, the breakfast of my childhood winters. Everyone stared in horror as I loaded the mushy substance in my bowl with brown sugar, cream, and raisins, but the horror was all mine as I took that first and last bite as everyone else at the table burst into laughter.

No more grits for me.

Prior to the Age of the Internet to prove me wrong, I argued that the fancy polenta chubs laced with sundried tomatoes, basil, and garlic I bought at European grocer was not Italian grits. The illusion pushed away the visceral disgust I felt every single time I heard the word grits.

Occasionally I would meet up with a fellow farmer who graciously delivered my products to a restaurant in DC that we both serviced. We’d meet up for the exchange at a Waffle House just over the Maryland border and every single time he’d order a side of grits. Nope, just couldn’t do it.

But one Sunday at market a beloved customer showed up and offered me half of his cheesy grits, a racquetball-sized deep fried mass of grits and cheddar with a spicy sauce drizzled atop. {Note: do not look for this item at market because the vendor has given up her food truck in lieu of being an awesome mom to two kids} He had been so kind to me during a most difficult time and I did not want to appear ungrateful so I accepted his offer preparing to choke down half of his order. It didn’t look to be that much.

Call it an epiphany, a redemption. All I know is at that moment I was hooked. Every week after that I had a standing order for cheesy grits on Sunday morning for breakfast.

Despite my adventuresome spirit when it comes to cooking, I’d never attempted to make cheesy grits for myself.  Cooking for one is not conducive to anything requiring a deep fryer. For that matter, I’d never cooked grits, period.

But last Sunday as I chatted with the fishmonger while he bagged up the lobsters for my mom’s 80th birthday dinner he pointed to the new vendor across the way, Migrash Farm—a Maryland farm and stone grist mill—and wondered if they had any grits left. Before he could hand over the crustaceans I headed across the isle and procured myself a bag of grits. After chatting with the farmer he said, “Remember, four to one,” meaning liquid to grits. “The first time, just cook with water to experience the nuanced flavor of the corn,” he suggested.

I’m not going to lie; I didn’t listen to him. I still used the ratio of grits to liquid, but how could I pass up rich homemade stock, mixed mushrooms, and green garlic—all delights from the farm and the market? I stirred until the mixture bubbled and spat and then let it sat for a few minutes before spooning into a bowl, stirring in fresh mozzarella, and drizzling with this year’s bottle of olio nuevo. I wished my old crew could see me now, but they’d probably still laugh at the way I prepared my grits.

Migrash Farm will be at alternating dates at Bethesda Central Farm Market. In addition to grits, they also grow and mill a variety of grains for assorted flours.