"What are grits, anyway?": a drabble
The milled porridge was a warm salty weight in his mouth. He tongued the soft, buttery lump, licking traces from his lips.
“Oh Doctor,” he moaned, “you were so right-breakfast of champions.”
“And are you sorry for mocking a ‘silly human regional peccadillo,’ just because you didn’t understand it?”
“So penitent I might be willing to demonstrate my appreciation of salty flavors. It’s only been a few hours, but do you, like the South, rise again?”
“Shush or you’ll see less action than Maine did.”
“And here I was hoping you’d take me like Sherman through Georgia.”
“…I hate you.”
“Oh Doctor,” he moaned, “you were so right-breakfast of champions.”
“And are you sorry for mocking a ‘silly human regional peccadillo,’ just because you didn’t understand it?”
“So penitent I might be willing to demonstrate my appreciation of salty flavors. It’s only been a few hours, but do you, like the South, rise again?”
“Shush or you’ll see less action than Maine did.”
“And here I was hoping you’d take me like Sherman through Georgia.”
“…I hate you.”