Nanny, the young boy's grandmother, gave him the pail and said to be careful and not get scratched. She always said that and he always came home scratched anyway. Nanny saw him outdoors with a hug and a kiss.
He headed toward the acres of brambles between Nanny's backyard and the high school. For each fat, juicy ripe blackberry he put in the pail, he ate two more until his hands and face were stained purple. He headed home when the pail and his tummy were full. His hands and arms were scratched up from rooting through the brambles for the fattest and finest of the berries.
The kitchen smelled of biscuits and strong coffee. Nanny was a daughter of German immigrants and her biscuits were spun from flour, butter, water, air and magic. He sat down to a breakfast of two biscuits slathered with pure butter and a bowl of blackberries drowned in cream.
Mama laughed a laugh that sounded like the smell of azaleas and said, "Look at this boy, someday he's gonna turn into a blackberry himself."
Nanny hummed while his Aunt Beulah, who everyone called Beudie, and Mama snapped beans, washed the grit out of collard and mustard greens and sorted black-eyed peas. The green beans and black-eyed peas were each put on to simmer half a day with salt pork. Mama and Beudie tore the greens -- cleaned and cleaned again -- into edible morsels and put them on to slow cook with some smoked meat.
Everything in the real South, including cooking and lovemaking, is done slowly and with care. Or as Daddy would say, "Anythin' worth doin' is worth doin' well," as he smiled and gave Mama a little pat on the behind.
Nanny rolled and folded and rolled and folded what would become the crusts of blackberry, coconut meringue and pecan pies. "Y'all go outside and play," she said to the boy. "The women have work to do."
They opened the garage door for Poppa -- their grandfather -- and they were all innocent smiles as he gave them some of the hard candy he always carried in his pockets.
But you had to be careful around Poppa. He had been a Southern Baptist preacher and he sometimes he roared like thunder over what seemed like nothing. But Poppa was just Poppa. Other times he was sad and quiet or strangely gay.
The boy went back into the kitchen where the women were working the true and secret magic of the South, frying chicken. You may think you have had fried chicken, you may even think you have had Southern-fried chicken. But unless it came from the hand of a Southern woman born and bred, it wasn't. They shooed him out of the kitchen.
After awhile, the table was set with a platter of fried chicken, deep bowls of greens, black-eyed peas, and green beans, and fresh cut garden tomatoes. Another pyramid of biscuits had been baked and was served up with fresh butter. Another Sunday dinner at his grandparents.
And yes, a bowl of grits as simple, enduring and strong as the South -- grits as complex, strong and enduring as the Polks.
In this Southern family, good health, longevity, and good fortune are attributed to grits.
Copyright 1996, Bud Polk