I spent quite a few years in the 'South'. As in the southern United States. Places like North Carolina and Tennessee. Having been reared in Connecticut, most everyone called me "Yankee". It was sometimes meant as a slur, but more often a term of endearment. Try as they might, they just couldn't help but like me. I kinda grow on folks.
During my time there I was introduced to a whole new brand of 'cuisine'. They ate stuff I'd never even heard of, let alone tasted. Things like grits and okra and home-made biscuits and even brains 'n' eggs. No, I never tried the brains. Just couldn't wrap my brain around the idea of eating brains. ICK. But I did try a lot of the other things they offered me, and for the most part really enjoyed the new flavors. Never did much care for okra though. Too slimy for me. Anyway...
There's something about grits and biscuits that always gives me that feeling of being wrapped in mama's arms. My mother never made grits; don't think she even knew what they were. But still...the tastes bring back the memories of those years spent in the South...and all the warm people I met while I was there.
When the weather is frosty and the belly is calling to be filled, I make grits and eggs and home-made biscuits. Sometimes I even make bacon to go with. Then, with that steaming plate wafting aromas, I sit myself down and let the warmth wash over me. I swear it's just like a hug.
There's just something about grits and eggs and hot-buttered biscuits.