Have y'all seen that acronym? GRITS? It stands for Girls Raised in the South. And I am proudly a GRITS. That sounds funny but you can't really say I'm a GRIT because then it would just be Girl Raised in the.... See? It's not grammatically correct, but this time I'm okay with it.
Having rambled on about that, let me say that during my adult life I have almost felt like an impostor in my own country. Now, don't get me wrong...I can talk the talk with the best of them, and I do lurve pinto beans and corn bread (and turnip greens and corn bread? Oh. My....love that, too!). I even like grits (the real thing this time) on occasion. But there was one Southern staple that I just didn't like. Couldn't make myself like, no matter how I tried.
(insert collective gasp from all other "good" Southerners out there)
I know, I know. Just call me Ouiser Boudreaux. But trust me; I have tried to like them, and have even made it to where I can eat them if they are cooked in something; I even like chunky tomatoes in my spaghetti and chili. But if you get a tomato near my hamburger or club sandwich, heaven help you. I don't even like to take them off the sandwiches because tomato slime always lingers. I thought I was destined to be the Southern girl with the dirty secret. (Okay, it's not so secret...there are plenty of servers in restaurants who have faced my "displeasure" at having a tomato tarnish my good food)
Then, Momma came to stay with us for a couple of weeks. She had been craving a BLT for a month, and nothing the hospital had could even compare. So, we planned our menu around having bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches one night. Sound Man got it all prepared, even cutting the tomatoes really, really thin. I think he was being optimistic that I might actually try one.
Well, lo and behold, I actually wanted to try one. So, I put mayonnaise on my bread, layered lots of lettuce and bacon, and gingerly placed a thinly sliced tomato on my sandwich. And took a bite.
You know what? I. LIKED. IT. No, I mean, I reeeeeeeally liked it!
This was taken after I had eaten half the sandwich and realized I HAD to blog about this astonishing revelation!
I ate this second half, then ate another half of one. I couldn't believe it, and neither could my husband or mother. They didn't give me too hard a time, for fear of jinxing the whole thing.
Now, just 'cause I've fallen for the culinary delight of a good BLT doesn't mean I'm going to stop ordering my Mexican pizza at Taco Bell "with NO tomatoes, PLEASE!" Or I'm going to go totally crazy and start eating tomato sandwiches (bread, mayo, tomato, a little sprinkling of salt) like my husband does when his dad gives him some fresh tomatoes from his garden.
But I've made progress. There is hope for me yet.