My name, Josiah. Salt Creek Georgia, my home.
A sweaty day in the swamp, hunting frogs, for frogs are good eating for a man of my station. Take work when I can minding Jubal Early's fields, but that work is not always to be had.
One day, got sick of frogs. Decided I wanted good grits, rich with the taste of butter and salt and with a nutty flavor. Wanted them grits with a fluffy buttermilk biscuit, soft and rich, with thick-cut bacon. And coffee. Eating like that makes you one with the South, one with Robert E. Lee.
Went to visit Old Man Marples, he's been up on Culp's Hill for eternity. "Old Man Marples," I say. "Where can I get me some grits, the kind you know I want?" He says, "over in Devil's Den." I go over to Devil's Den and over there they tell me they don't have no grits, and then they proceed to attack. "Sabers, gentlemen!" they call out and they chase after me and stab me.
