Thanks to Tamara Mann for this guest post.  Tamara lives in New York City and is a Ph.D candidate in American History.  

I think I screamed. I opened the fridge, saw the gelatinous lard on the top shelf and screamed. Welcome to Durham, North Carolina, where five regionally distinct 19-year olds shared a disintegrating house with a large kitchen and a wraparound southern porch. Hailing from New York City, rural Georgia, a litany of military bases, New Jersey by way of India, and the Midwest, our motley crew looked like a trite “We Are Diverse” poster. And the smells emanating from the kitchen reflected the sentiment.

Unlike my roommates, I grew up in a family that loved to eat but hated to cook. We oohed and aahed over the merits of kosher turkey with coleslaw and the best mustard for mini hot dogs while pretty much avoiding cooking anything beyond fried egg sandwiches. When I moved to North Carolina, I never even looked at the kitchen. I cared about my room, the porch, the proximity to campus and my boyfriend, but failed to open the fridge or see if the stove worked.

My intrepid roommate, Simmons, was another story. After building us a kitchen table, securing chairs, and scrubbing down the kitchen, Simmons cooked us dinner. The table overflowed with pimento cheese toasts, homemade biscuits, cheese grits, fried something, and fried something else. To me, this display was nothing short of a miracle. I had never seen anyone produce food in a kitchen and I wanted to learn. I wanted to make collard greens, smoky black-eyed peas and jalapeno corn bread. And that is how I ended up entering the kitchen on the fateful day in October to witness the jiggling body of lard invading our fridge.

Ok. I probably should have realized that everything seemed a bit too good to be kosher. But I just couldn’t imagine that anyone actually cooked with lard – Crisco, yes but lard, no! How did he even get lard? Nonetheless, there it was, holding court between my yogurt and the English muffins. At that moment, I knew what I had to do. I had to take back the kitchen. I had to find a way to master Simmons’ amazing recipes without using traif! But how! Well, that’s when I discovered butter. Beautiful creamy butter is the Jewish Southern cooks best friend. Forget oil, Crisco, and the world of freakishly designed fat substitutes and embrace the world of butter.

Here is one of my favorite recipes that I adapted through numerous conversations with Jewish belles from Lexington, Savannah, and Montgomery. I call these Peddler’s Grits in honor of the Central-European peddlers that settled across the South in the mid-19th century.

Peddler’s Grits
4 cups water
4 cups whole milk
2 cups grits (I like to use the stone-ground grits)
1 stick unsalted butter
1 cup heavy cream (optional)
a large bistle of shredded smoky cheddar cheese ( I like to use maple smoked cabot…even though it is a Yankee cheese)
2 tsp kosher salt
(finish with paprika)

Bring the water and milk to a simmer. In another bowl cover the grits with water and whisk. Let the grits stand 30 seconds and then skim off anything that has floated to the top. Drain the grits and then whisk into the simmering milk. Reduce the heat to low and simmer partially covered for 1 hour and 15 minutes. Now this is the important part! Grits is a jealous grain and you must give it constant stirring attention. Keep stirring until you see the grits take on that divine consistency that others have described as not too runny and not too thick. When they are ready, stir in the cream, butter, salt and cheese. Serve with a nice sprinkling of coarse sea salt, shredded cheddar and paprika.