Every time my grandmother asked me what I wanted to eat, I gave her the same answer:  “eggs and grits.”  She made the mistake of introducing this combination to me as soon as I stopped eating food out of a jar.  For the next few years (sometimes referred to as the Malnourishment Era), breakfast, lunch and dinner became eggs and grits—prepared exactly the same way as the first time that she handed it to me:  an over easy egg, fried in an inch deep of butter in a cast iron from her own youth.  I never knew what she did with the grits.  All I know is that she did not own a microwave or a box of grits, so to me, the food was my first encounter with what I believed to be magic.  As soon as both items of food were done being prepared, they were dumped into my Batman bowl and lovingly mixed into a visually unappealing, buttery concoction that leads me to believe that I still would not be able to accurately identify the taste of grits or eggs.