Don’t Cry Over Spoiled Grits

In an effort to connect with my ancestors, I embarked on a culinary adventure, delving into recipes that resonated with my heritage. Among them, Shrimp and Grits held a special place in my heart. But little did I know that this seemingly simple dish would teach me a profound lesson about resilience and perseverance.

At the beginning of my little cooking endeavor, I'm already overwhelmed by the task. Cooking to some people gives a sense of relief, peace, and even safety, that isn't the case for me. The kitchen has always been a source of anxiety, rooted in childhood experiences and trauma. Food is a love and hate relationship to which I wrestle with constantly. Sometimes I win and sometimes I lose. In this case, however; I did both. 

After watching countless videos and tutorials, I finally mustered the courage to start cooking. I chose a classic, Shrimp and Grits. Easy enough, right? Anyone with a brain and a bit of talent could do this recipe with their eyes closed. Mine might as well been closed because the first challenge arose when I attempted to cut bacon with my handy dandy food scissors. I don't know if I wasn't paying enough attention or too much attention, but I ended up slicing my finger. Blood trickled down my hand and I had to quickly turn away and bandaged myself.  

Setback number one. It's cool, people cut themselves all the time. It's fine. I bandaged my finger and continued cooking. I put the food scissors to the side, after washing them of course, and pulled out a knife to cut the bell peppers and onions. Instead of just making a simple Shrimp and Grit recipe, I had to turn it into a gourmet style southern cooking meal. Only for setback number two to happen. In some freaky turn of events, the knife sliced through my thumb and nail bed, right at the top and blood squirted across the counter like some comical scene in a Tubi horror movie!

What in the flying low budget FUCK was this!?

Quickly, I tried to stop the bleeding. I had to pull out the first aid kit for this one. I was about to faint. LAWD! All I was trying to do was connect with my ancestors via food! I done cut myself twice! After I bandaged the second cut, I low key wanted to pull up my doordash, order some junk food, and sit my ass on my couch and watch Supernatural. BUT I didn't. I swallowed down my frustration and continued to work.

I managed to cut and chop all my veggies without another major cut and threw my shrimps into some bomb ass rich melted butter. I followed the recipe to the T and now it was time to cook the grits. When I reached over to grab the container of grits, mishap number three!

EXPLOSION OF EPIC PROPORTIONS!

The damn grits was like white sand, it was EVERYWHERE! My floor, counter, in the eyes on the stove, in my hair, and later that night when I took off my bra, I found some in there too. I was done. Everything that could go wrong with cooking this meal, had went wrong. What's next, house fire? Was this a sign? Maybe I shouldn't be doing this, what was the point of trying to connect with my ancestors, did they even care, where they even listening? As I bent over, trying my hardest to not cry and feel defeated, a small voice of wisdom whisphered in my ear, saying, "Don't cry over spilled grits." 

"There everywhere!" I replied back. "How can I not cry? Nothing is going right." I wiped the tears from my eyes with my sleeves. I needed to take a break. I cut off the shrimp and left the grits all over the floor and stepped away. I couldn't do this. I hated cooking, I hated being in the kitchen, and I hated the fact that this simple ass recipe had turned into a cooking episode from hell.

As I sat on the couch about to order from doordash, the voice came to me again. “Don’t cry over spilled grits.” Then a sensation of utter stillness and peace swept over me and all I could do was sit still and listen. An overwhelming feeling of, “You got this. You can do this. We are here and we are listening” made the hairs on my arms stand up. The only other way to explain this phenomenon was being covered in a warm blanket by someone who cares deeply about my wellbeing.

I took a deep breath, wiped my tears, and headed back into the kitchen. I realized in that moment, setbacks and mistakes were a natural part of any journey, especially one filled with discoveries. Embracing the spills and mishaps was crucial in moving forward and connecting with self. Determined not to be defeated, I improvised and successfully cooked the grits in the microwave as well as cleaned up my mess of a kitchen. Although my traditional meal didn’t go as planned, the Shrimp and Grits turned out surprisingly delicious. As I savored the flavors, I understood that perfection wasn't the goal; rather, it was the effort and intention behind the dish that mattered.

I guess I could say, hard work really did pay off.

This culinary experience taught me a valuable lesson on my ancestral journey. It reminded me that mistakes were opportunities for growth and that the path to connecting with my heritage might be filled with challenges. But don't give up.

As we embark on personal quests, we must remember that spilled grits are a part of life. Each mistake guides us forward, and our ancestors are there, supporting us every step of the way.

So, let us embrace the journey, knowing that it might not always be perfect or traditional, but it will be exactly what we need. In the end, we'll savor the rich rewards of our efforts, just like I did with my piping hot bowl of flavorful Shrimp and Grits.

Fam, we got this. Keep going. And in my case, keep cooking until done.