The following information in this post is no longer true. The mere threat of this post was enough to influence behavior; thus involving instructions being read, and recipes being followed. It is however, slightly humorous, so I’m posting it anyway.
My husband, an incredibly handy and useful individual, is utterly incapable of cooking grits. He means well when he tries to make us breakfast. He’s using “breakfast making” as a distraction when he tries to let me get the 2 or 3 more hours of sleep than he needs for himself. He gets out of bed and reads at least a dozen newspapers online, and he tries to make breakfast while I sleep the sleep of the deserving.
Sometimes Often, he’ll come in to the bedroom and tell me “It’s morning!” to which I reply “In Guam!” as I turn over, covering my head with an additional pillow.
When I do get out of bed (as the sun is just cresting the eastern horizon), there is hot water ready for my tea, sometimes there is oatmeal, and sometimes there is a solid concrete-like substance made from hominy grits.
He’s getting closer, I think. I’ve said things like, “If you salt the water, you won’t feel you need as much butter.” <–that worked! But the cooking of grits is still apparently too complex a feat in the early morning. Reading instructions or measuring is apparently too similar to “asking directions when lost” … it just isn’t going to happen.
It is unfortunately, his impatience that causes the process to slip a gear. He’s impatient for me to wake up when he distracts himself with the project. He explains the process like this: He boils the salted water, adds the grits, and then brings it to a boil again. At this point it looks far too thin … so he adds more grits, thus creating the concrete-like mass once the concoction has actually cooked for the 5 minutes required … and then he shrugs, as if planetary alignment has somehow caused this situation, and there is nothing else that can be done.
So the morning I’m writing this post, I have taken photos of the solidity of the savory breakfast substance, and laughed aloud about the post I’m going to write. I had to promise to admit that I *did* eat the grits, and the *were* tasty. My promise received a smugly satisfied smile.