Gritty Issues

     I've been thinking lately about our great cultural divides. These are the lines that separate dog people from cat people; morning people from night owls; punctual people from laggards.
     I've been thinking about one boundary marker in particular:  grits.
     I come at this from a certain perspective. By birth and early upbringing I am a southerner. But late in boyhood I became a nomad. I've lived or spent time in most of the regions east of the Mississippi, and I've made a few stops out west.
     In my life experience, four kinds of individuals are found along the grits spectrum:
     -- People who've never heard of grits.
     -- People who've heard of them but never tried them.
     -- People who've tried them but don't like them.
     -- People of discerning taste.
     Those in category one can be forgiven their ignorance. Outside Dixie, grits can be very hard to find. I remember once trying to order grits in a Detroit hotel. The server's expression said I might as well have asked for a serving of library paste.
     In category two, grits often have a bad reputation. The reasons have never been clear to me. It may be a manifestation of regional prejudice (we all have them). Or perhaps the explanation is simpler.  As the name of a victual, the word "grits" is not rich with appeal.  Purveyors of grits might take a useful cue from those who fob off green beans as haricots verts.
     In category three we must of course allow for the vagaries of personal preference. We must also be forgiving of untutored experience. I once saw a New Englander mistake grits for cream of wheat and flavor them accordingly.  The result was not agreeable.
     In my early upbringing we lived for a time with my grandparents on a small farm.  The food traditions there were strong. When pigs were killed in the fall, my grandmother made chitlins. My grandfather's favorite breakfast was fatback with molasses and buttermilk. Collard greens and boiled okra were regulars.
     Our family didn't make a big occasion of New Year's Eve but the folks down the road did. They always had Hoppin' John, and they always made it the authentic, old-time way -- with pig knuckles.
     For me all these are now staples in memory only. But grits remain a staple in fact. I am an ardent member of category four.
     We do not have a bed of roses there. We struggle  against temptation to condescend. We know we must not. The cultural deprivation of others is not necessarily their fault. Our proper role among them is ambassadorial, not missionary. We must hope that tact and patience will be effective in broadening their horizons.
     Although in Detroit it may be a tough sell.