Hungry Times Two

On the first day of 2018, the scene is set.  The fireplace is blazing. Our dog Loretta is curled up on the love seat next to me. Candles on the mantle are flickering. My small-ish second glass of red wine blooms warmly with each sip. There's no Netflix on the TV.  No radio blaring the latest news.   Quiet. Gentle. Cozy.  I'll have a second and third helping of this in 2018, please and thank you. 

Today's Charlotte Observer feature on grits calls the Southern staple a "warm hug from a bowl." Grits have a thermonuclear nature, taking forever to cool down and often burning the sin off your tongue even when you think they're safe to eat. But there's something about a nice creamy bowl of grits. (Random shout out to Little Milton for singing about them.) I grew up on grits, with my Grandmother Carrie keeping the yellow kind -- preferred to white -- in a canister on her kitchen counter. They were usually served along with country ham, biscuits or on their own with a little butter, salt and pepper. For those of you born outside the South: grape jelly is never an acceptable add-in for grits. They're not oatmeal or Cream of Wheat, y'all. Leave the sweet stuff out.