Since moving to Pittsburgh, on a number of occasions I've attempted to find respectable grits. I've had varying results, and overall those results have been disappointing to one degree or another. Still I continue to take my chances.
I recently took another chance at this endeavor when I stopped into a diner close to my workplace to take out breakfast rather than going out for lunch later in the day. The diner seemed a fairly typical Pittsburgh eatery but something unusual caught my eye. On a vent hood, refrigerator door, or other such stainless steel thing behind the lunch counter, a bumper sticker had been affixed. It read, "Tybee Island Is My Happy Place". Having spent a day hashing on on Tybee Island and thoroughly enjoying my first dinner bowl of Shrimp & Grits during that same trip to Savannah, I looked upon the bumper sticker fondly.
As I looked over the menu I saw a number of tributes to that area of the South. Among the items listed were "Savannah-Style Grits", "Shrimp & Grits" and "Low-Country Breakfast". While I was intrigued and curious about each of these dishes, I was aware that my needs for breakfast were going to be better served by a breakfast sandwich of some sort. So I did order the breakfast sandwich that was billed on the menu as being their top seller, but since the Savannah-Style Grits were under five bucks, I tacked that onto my order as well.
Now because this establishment is the kind of simple neighborhood diner that features a lunch counter, you might also expect that it's the kind of joint that would have an open kitchen manned by a short-order cook where the servers take care of side line duties -- and you'd be right. So having no other distractions in which to indulge, I got to see my breakfast being made. I watched the waitress who'd taken my order grab a wooden bowl -- the kind my grandmother probably still has in her kitchen -- and heap two scoops of dry grits into it. She then added water, milk and butter and threw it in the microwave. I was crestfallen. That's no way to cook grits!
Ever hopeful that they wouldn't be bad, I watched the waitress to see what she might add to the grits after they came out of the microwave. Before packaging the grits to-go, the only thing she added was water, directly from the tap, And as she loaded the to-go container into the bag with my breakfast sandwich she asked me if I wanted syrup for my grits. Syrup?!?
After arriving at work I investigated the grits. I found that they'd congealed into a firm, dry mass rather than being the creamy, smooth treat I was hoping for. I dug a scoop out and gave it a try -- absolutely no salt. I nearly decided to toss it then. But because a depression-era sense of conservation was instilled in me by my grandmother at a very young age, I exhibited my worthiness of membership in the Clean Plate Club.
As I ate my horrible grits I contemplated why, despite all of these kinds of failures, I keep trying to find edible grits north of the Mason-Dixon Line. I was able to connect with some very deeply set realities.
One of those realities is that certain foods connect me to my heritage -- a heritage that I cherish. Even in writing this I've mentioned my grandmother -- the center-point of my notions on what it is to be a girl raised in the south (G.R.I.T.S, if you're unfamiliar) -- more than once. Connecting to that heritage has felt even more important since having moved the trivial-seeming 70 miles north across the Mason-Dixon.
Another deep personal reality that I recognized was that I connect very strongly to my heritage through those who share a similar heritage. Those people seem as uncommon to find here in Pittsburgh as it is to find decent grits. I recently joked with a friend -- after another tragic attempt at finding palatable grits -- that the best grits I've had in Pittsburgh have come from Robert Baugh's kitchen.
Connecting that that last reality is what inspired this post. It struck me heavily. What struck me most was the realization that I connect to my heritage through Rob and others like him, and when I can't seem to really connect with him, or don't know anyone else who's like him in that sense, I desire even more strongly to be in close proximity to those who share my heritage.
The effect that this has is that I long even more to live in the South again. I yearn to leave Pittsburgh and all that it has to offer -- which sadly includes Rob -- behind in order to recapture a sense of familiarity and belonging. In that sense, I see that this is not home, and I want to go home.
