Senseless Sunday Sarcasm : grit

Cooking is to art…

as Picasso is to casserole


Grandma Moses is to cheese grits

Michelangelo is to an extraordinary wedding cake

or Georgia O’Keefe is to jello.

My mom passed along her culinary skills to her youngest daughter (me). 

If my cooking was compared to art…

…you might recognize what it is, but you wouldn’t want to go there.

And yet, there are some things that even I won’t eat.

Being raised in the south by two people from the south, I didn’t have a bagel until I was in my 20’s, pastrami was a foreign object southerners avoided at all costs, and anything other than a recognized pork product (bacon, sausage or ham) served with bread, cereal, eggs or grits was an affront to the traditional breakfast. 

Now…imagine you’ve never before heard of a bagel, or met anyone who ate whitefish for breakfast.  Then you marry someone from up north.

You’re used to having this for breakfast

Your honey fishes this out of the fridge

The eyes stare up at you, pleading for mercy as your honey starts to dig into its midsection.

You finally get past the phase where the toilet is your friend and you can sit at the table with a bowl of grits…

when the unthinkable happens.

Who knew that whitefish, or tongue sandwiches, couldn’t cause infertility?

You have a child, and when he’s 2 years old he has on his high chair a…a… *shudder* plate of grits and whitefish.

This isn’t art, it’s sacrilege.