Shrimp Butter and Grits with Freshly Squeezed Orange Juice

Shrimp Butter and Grits with Freshly Squeezed Orange Juice

by Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Welcome to the pot, y’all. Glad you could make it.

Now listen here this ain’t no uptight brunch in the city with folks sippin’ on overpriced kale juice and tappin’ on their phones like woodpeckers on espresso. Naw, this right here? This is breakfast with heart. This is soul food with a message, simmered low and slow like Grandma’s Sunday gravy.

Now go freshen up, wash yesterday off ya face, and shake off that monkey clingin’ to your back like unpaid bills. Today, I’m servin’ up somethin’ real: shrimp butter and grits with a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and honey, we don’t just eat this, we minister through it.

And yes, we add sour cream to the grits, baby. That’s what makes ‘em smoother than a backroad preacher’s love song. It’s the secret to that velvety kind of comfort that hugs your soul from the inside out. Some folks say it ain’t proper, but let me tell you, “Proper don’t always mean powerful.”

Now, I know not everybody’s into seafood, so don’t fret. I got a skillet of smoky, seasoned veggies on deck that'll have even the carnivores hollerin’ hallelujah. And if you vegan, baby, I got you too ain’t no shame at this table.

Now let me tell y’all a good old Southern tale. Back in the day, there was a woman named Miss Essie Pearl, lived way down in the holler, in a house that leaned like it was tired. Roof was patchworked with tin and prayers. Folks said she had hands that could bless food just by stirrin' it and a tongue that could slice a demon in half with scripture.

She once told me while we was shellin' peas, “Baby, even shrimp gotta rise when the water boil.” Now at the time, I thought she was just ramblin’ in that sweet Southern way old folks do. But years later, when life had me sittin’ in some hot water myself bills stackin’ like dominoes, love life drier than a biscuit without gravy that word came back to me.

Even shrimp gotta rise when the water boil.

Now that’s scripture if you ask me. That’s a parable wrapped in seafood. What she meant was, sometimes life turns up the heat, not to burn us down, but to raise us up. You sittin’ there thinkin’ you sinkin’, but the boil is what makes you rise, baby.

You ever notice how grits don’t come out creamy ‘til they been stirred? That pot gotta get messy, gotta bubble up before the flavors marry and mellow. That’s us. Life stirs us up, throws in some trials, seasons us with heartache and faith and then, Lord willing, we come out smooth.

Now, Miss Essie Pearl didn’t just cook. She preached without a pulpit. She used to say, “Don’t let nobody tell you you too soft if your heart’s tender. The Lord made peaches and He made pinecones both got a place in the basket.”

That’s wisdom, y’all. That’s Proverbs with a side of sass.

Let me tell you about ol’ Junebug, Essie’s nephew. That boy was slicker than a greased weasel and twice as sneaky. Always tryin’ to cut corners skippin’ steps in recipes, takin’ shortcuts in life. One day, he tried to rush a roux, thinkin’ he could mix flour and oil without that slow brownin’ patience. Whole pot turned chalky. Essie Pearl looked at him and said, “Child, you can’t fake flavor. Just like you can’t fake faith.”

Boom. Another sermon in an apron.

She lived by the Good Book but walked like she was cookin’ from the soul. “Ain’t no point singin’ in the choir if your heart off-key,” she’d say. Or my favorite: “You can’t catch blessings with clenched fists. Loosen up, child.”

And y’all, that hits deep. ‘Cause so many of us go through life clenchin’ clenchin’ our pain, our pride, our past mistakes. Meanwhile, God tryna hand us somethin’ beautiful, but we too busy holdin’ onto what broke us. Let go. Open your palms. Let grace pour in like cane syrup on hot cornbread.

Now, this meal ain’t just for fillin’ bellies. It’s a reminder. That sour cream in the grits? That’s mercy, softenin’ the grit of our days. The butter? That’s joy. Smooth, warm, decadent joy. The shrimp? Baby, that’s you rising, transforming in the heat.

And the orange juice? Well, that’s clarity. A fresh squeeze of the Spirit remindin’ you the day is new, the past is gone, and the sun’s still got your name on it.

So next time life feels like it’s turnin’ up the flame, don’t panic. Remember Miss Essie Pearl. Remember the shrimp. Rise, baby. Rise.

And as the old folks used to say, “If the Lord didn’t want you to dance through the fire, He wouldn’t have made your feet.”

Now go on, eat up, praise up, and pass that hot sauce. And if life gets too rough just stir your grits slow, add a little sour cream, and call on The Creator.

Final word? Don’t trust nobody who don’t dance a little when the grease pop. Amen and amen.