|photo courtesy of Anson Mills|
My grandfather (or rather, my grandmother's first husband...because she had at least two, that I'm aware of), was a bastard...and he didn't last long before he met with the kind of justice that anyman who hits a woman should.
According to my grandmother, my grandfather had made his physical dislike of something she had done known and had then gone to take a nap. Now she, being a good southern girl and full of piss and vinegar, put a pot on the stove an prepared my favorite breakfast treat: grits. When they were done, she took the pot off the stove, carried it into her bedroom and promptly dumped the entire pot onto the face of her sleeping husband.
I'm told he never hit her again.