Grit Snit

I have been experimenting with maize meal lately. Last week, I made organic yellow corn grits that I deemed tasty and pleasing although the boys, rather disloyally, disagreed. I confessed at the time to being a bit stymied by the grits' worryingly close resemblance to creamy polenta. Indeed, I'm convinced that it was, in fact, polenta - and quite magnifico it tasted, too.

But I still wanted grits. There was in my cupboard one as-yet untried maize product, you may recall, a blue cylinderful of smooth & creamy enriched old fashioned white hominy grits, just waiting for the opportunity to come out of hiding and prove its worth. The occasion would necessarily have to be a meal where the boys' attentions were otherwise engaged and just such an event occurred earlier this week, when they declared they wanted oven chips with their grilled steaks.

Sigh.

I am not really a big fan of oven chips - but neither do I relish heating up huge vats of oil on the stove-top when it's a zillion degrees outside. As a result, I usually keep a bag or two in the freezer, just to keep the peace. What I did not realize, however, was that Sir had previously snuck off the supermarket, bought a bag of battered chips, and then concealed it in the chill chest behind the home-made ice cream; duck stock; and cheese-making cultures. Battered chips! Talk about adding insult to injury. I decided that while the men in my life were eating ridiculous gluten and chemical-filled french fries - and best of luck to them, frankly - I would partake of virtuous all-natural creamy corn commendableness.

I do so enjoy taking the moral high ground, don't you?

Sidebar: If I were to be brutally honest, I would admit to having never actually tasted grits. I'm not sure how, at my advanced age, this is possible but I suspect my sheltered life far north of the Mason-Dixon line and across wide oceans may be at least partly to blame. That, and my previous devotion to pasta and gluten-filled cereals for side-dishes and morning fare. Something hot at breakfast? I was always a cream of wheat or oatmeal girl before I became a gluten guerrilla and forsook such inappropriate fare.

So before I could enjoy my grits I first had to decide how to cook my maize. I didn't want to go exotically international by accidentally making polenta (again!) or putu or sadza or sima or angu or ugali or amaliga. I wanted grits and I was determined to get them. Luckily, the manufacturers' food scientists had provided on the package's label a fool-proof recipe, no doubt for the benefit of cooks like me who failed to learn the correct method at their grandmother's knee.

I put on my reading glasses and studied the procedure for Cheese Grits.

I quote:

In a saucepan, slowly stir 1/2 cup of grits into 2 1/4 cups of boiling water. Reduce heat to medium low and cover. Cook for 12 to 14 minutes or until thickened, stirring occasionally.

Check. So far so good. I did as I was told and in no time at all I had a lovely (if somewhat bland-tasting) thick porridge bubbling away in my favorite round-bottomed, slope-sided, glass-lidded chef's pan.

What next, I wonder? Let's see ...

Add four ounces pasteurized process cheese spread, cubed.

Well, I can't recall what I said at this point in the proceedings, but I'm pretty sure only dogs could hear me. I don't suppose I need to point out that pasteurized process cheese spread is something I never, ever have in the house. I mean, oven chips are one thing, but cheese food is a whole nuther pot o' curds. If processed cheese spread is even made from curds. Which I doubt.

I rummaged around in our extensive fromage collection and found the heel of an old hunk of Essex St. Comte, ready to go off and enter cheese heaven unless it was given one final purpose in life. There were about three ounces' worth: I cubed it very small and stirred it into the mush, where in the time it takes to ask 'Where's the Velveeta?' it melted all creamy-like and delectable.

Saved!

Now what? I was almost afraid to look.

Add a dash of garlic powder and paprika (optional).

Oh, for crying out loud.

At this point I gave up all hope of being authentic and old-fashioned. I hastily retrieved from their jar five Peppadews®, reasoning that they were sort of paprika-like and would add a nice bit of rosiness and zest to the color-challenged dish before me. I chopped the peppers small and dumped them into the pan.

I tasted the contents and decided they were still in desperate need of seasoning. I added good measures of salt and freshly ground black pepper until I adjudged I had a fantastic side-dish on my hands. I puddled some on my plate and adorned it with a few slices of grilled beef, all rare and delicious. The starch was a perfect creamy foil to the protein's charred surface and sopped up the flavorful juices with great efficiency. It was all pretty damn fine, if neither old-fashioned, or traditional, or grits even.

Of course, the boys wouldn't even try them which was fine by me. I discovered the next day at lunch (and the day after that) that my side-dish microwaves fantastically, although it does get a little stiff over time, transmogrifying into something that is less creamy porridge and more solid cake, which in my book is no deficit.

But I think I have yet to taste grits.