GRITS?

                                      

How can anyone expect me to like a food called grits? I looked up, grit, in my American Heritage Dictionary. It doesn’t sound even remotely edible. Grit is “minute rough granules, as of sand or stone.” What would possess me to even consider putting that in my mouth and then actually swallowing it? I have no gizzards. I’m not a fowl thing.

If I put grit in my mouth, it would tear up my intestines and, Heaven Forbid! I don’t even want to think of what it would feel like coming out the bottom end. Oh Lord, help us! 

I read down further in the dictionary: “The texture or structure of stone to be used in grinding.” Hell No! I’m not going to eat anything that is going to grind my innards. That’s just crazy!

Why do people eat that stuff? I continued my search. Maybe, just maybe, there is something else in the dictionary.  Grit is also a verb. I can’t eat verbs. Herbs, yes. Verbs, no. I checked again. To grit is to clamp (the teeth) together. Yup! That’s right. I’m going to clamp my teeth together if any one tries to make me eat grits.

I almost put the dictionary away when I saw the plural of grit, grits. Coarsely ground grains, especially corn. I suppose that if you don’t have sand, you can use coarsely ground corn to grind something down. Maybe it can be used in place of sand in a sand-blaster when you don’t want to be too rough on the surface.

I’m even more puzzled than I was before. Why would anyone want to eat grits? It must be a Southern thing, like eating that poisonous plant, Polk Salad.

 

Re-tread

     The Albuquerque sun illuminated the azure skies as Diego and Audra walked out of the Frontier Restaurant. They climbed into the red pickup truck they had rented. Diego drove west on Central and then headed north on Interstate 25. “I want to take you down the old highway, along the river and railroad tracks,” he said.

     “Oh! That’s a good idea, Audra said as she shook her reddish auburn hair off her back. “We’re in no hurry anyway.” Audra unbuckled her seat-belt and slid over on the truck’s bench seat to sit next to Diego. She searched around the seat looking for the middle seat-belt. Once securely fastened, she snuggled up next to Diego and looked out the windshield to her right. 

     “Watch out!! Watch out!!” she yelled and threw up her arms as Diego swerved the truck to avoid tire parts. A piece of tire smacked the windshield with a hard thud.

     “Holy shit!” Diego shouted. His knuckles were white and tight on the steering wheel. “Thank God that didn’t crash through the windshield. I’m going pull off at the next exit and check for damage.”

     “That trucker didn’t even slow down,” Audra said with her back toward Diego. She had turned her torso all the way around to see what was happening behind them. “They’re all swerving around the tread,” she said. She turned back to face Diego. “How can he not know that his tire blew up and is making a mess all over the freeway?”

     Diego looked in his rear-view mirror and then to his right before he moved to the far right lane. He let out a long sigh and eased his grip on the steering wheel. “There’s not much he can do, if you think about it. That tire is probably 40 feet behind him. And once it blows its re-read, the damage is done.”

     Diego burst out laughing as he left the Interstate.

     “What’s so funny?’ Audra asked.

     “You! If you hadn’t been buckled in, I’m sure you would’ve jumped into my lap. You." He squinted, laughed and hit the steering wheel with his left hand. "You slapped me in the face with your hand. Did you know that?”

     Laughter erupted in the cab. 

     “I did?" Aurdra's blue eyes were giggling. "I’m sorry. You’re right. Especially when that rubber hit the windshield. Holy cow!”

     “I’m going to pull into the first parking lot and check for damage,” Diego said. “And then I’m going to find a bar where you and I can have a beer.”

Purslane Is a Weed

Today’s subject wouldn’t leave me alone.
something people hate, but need so badly. Write about something people overlook that is really beautiful or significant.
Bring that object, thing, person (even) to the light.

This subject nipped at my heels all day long. “How about toilets?” it asked. “Y'all hate toilets and y'all really, really need em.” 

I didn’t want to write about toilets. When I took the trash cans out to the street, again the subject nipped. 
“How about trash cans or trash trucks? Oh, I got it. How about those old time garbage men who drove down y’all’s street when y'all were young. Remember how they drove those stinky open air garbage trucks that made y'all gag when they drove by? (That was in the time before garbage disposals). Remember how they all smoked big cigars as they drove and how the flies were buzzin all over the truck. That was really gross, huh?”
“No! I don’t want to write about garbage trucks,” I said. “ They don’t exist anymore.”
“You’re acting like a piss ant, ya know,” the subject said. “I keep giving y’all great ideas and ya just poo poo them. Ok uno mas, Señor Too Picky for Y'alls own good.  Y'all are gonna like this one.”
“How do you know I’m going to like it. I didn’t like the others.”
Y’all are gonna like it because I saw the way ya mowed around it when y’all were cutting the front lawn this morning.”
“You aren’t talking about that weed in the grass, are you?”
“Of course I am! Purslane is the perfect thing for ya to write about. It may be a weed and it is a very good weed. Y'all can eat it. And ya have to admit, that when it’s not hidden in the tall grass, it’s kinda pretty.”
Purslane is pretty for a tiny succulent. I admire its zest for life and its resilience. It is so adaptable to whatever environment is finds itself in. In that regard, Purslane is a teacher. It doesn’t complain about where it grew up or about where it is living now. It not only makes do, it thrives with whatever its environment gives it. I find Purslane growing in my lawn, in cracks in the side walk, on the sides of dirt paths and in flower pots. We can eat it raw. We can put it in salads.  It has higher omega-3s than any other plant (and is way cheaper than salmon), and high levels of melatonin, a hormone that’s great for regulating sleep.

Try this recipe for Purslane and Avocado Tacos:
http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/purslane-and-avocado-tacos-with-pico-de-gallo-51240610 

The Good Ole Days Are Created NOW

     Our daughter, Celeste, just sprinkled cold water on my back as I walked by her. She giggled and her brows danced up. She painted a mischievous smile on her face as she continued washing the dishes and singing along with the Dixie Chicks on the radio.

     The Dixie Chicks sang, The Travelin’ Soldier, a song about a girl who fell in love with a soldier who wanted someone to write to while he fought in Viet Nam. It reminded me of how Denise and I wrote ourselves in love with our letters to and from the Tonkin Gulf in Viet Nam.

     “You do realize that song could be about your mom and me, right?” I said.

     Celeste’s eyes twinkled and squinted, “Nah! You and mom are the last thing that I think about when I listen to this song!” Then her smile fell off her face for a second. “He dies, dad. It’s a sad song.”

     “OK. The first part of the song could be about your mom and me.”

     She laughed and said, “Nope, I never think about you and mom when I hear this song.”

     She’s lying, of course.

     We were playing and being completely in the moment and in the moment is when the Good Ole Days are created.

I don’t want to go back to the Good Ole Days of the past. I want to create the Good Now Days NOW! 

     I found some letters I had written during the war about the day and night we spent on R&R at golf tee number 7 on Grande Island in Subic Bay, Philippines. Fighting in a war is not the Good Ole days. But, those precious moments when we could escape the war and play, now those moments were the Good Ole Days. They taught me to create my own Good Ole Days regardless of the hardships I have to endure.

     Today, I have work to do. And I have play to do, too.