Amidst chaos last night, my sister prepared one of her signature Southern meals--fried yellow squash, collards with fatback, mashed potatoes, biscuits, creamed corn, and pork roast. It was so good it'd make you want to slap your mama--an old saying. Of course, we all get ready to slap each other without food instigating it. In the car on the way to the barbecue restaurant last night, I was riding with my niece, Caylyn, her husband, Michael, and my mother.
Michael: Where are we going?
Caylyn: Y'all aren't listening.
Mom: If you don't know where we're going then why are we going there?
Caylyn: Y'all aren't listening! We're going to that barbecue place down past Griffin! I can't exactly remember where it is.
Michael: I just want to know where we're eating!"
Caylyn: The barbecue place!
Mom: Well, you can't drive around and around 'cause you don't have a tag and the police will get you.
Caylyn: It's right up here!
Mom: I thought you didn't know where it was!
Caylyn: I don't but it's right up here.
Mom: You're going to run out of gas. And you're going to get a ticket.
Michael: Do you know where we're eating?
Caylyn: It's right there. I see the sign.
Mom: I don't see it.
Caylyn: It's right there! Southern barbecue!
Michael: That barbecue is racist, then.
Caylyn: It is not!