Today I was thinking about the Sunday picnics we used to have at the church I grew up going to in South Carolina. The pastor liked fried chicken, so all the ladies would make their best version and bring it to the picnic. It was like an unsaid fried chicken competition. Also, there was a lot of sweet tea competing going on as well. I guess if you didn’t have best chicken, you could bring home a runner up best tea placement. Someone would unofficially announce the winner by casually mentioning something like, “Debbie, I sure wanted to try some of your chicken. I guess I needed to be first in line.” Of course, I thought my moms fried chicken was always the best. Things could have been a little livelier if anybody had the guts to call out the not so good selections. “Tammy, honey, I just about choked on your bone dry chicken there, sweetheart. You might want to cut back on that flour.”
There was usually some kind of softball game being played. It was mostly just adults playing, but one year they included kids. I was horrified, because I knew that I was going to be terrible. I was right. I really wanted to blame it on just being a kid, but those darn Wheeler siblings ruined that excuse. Try not to be jealous, but I was an excellent watcher.
Today is my first Sunday in North Carolina. I didn’t find any church picnics, but I did find Granny’s Donuts and Bakery and Granny’s Treasure Chest antiques shop. And who knows how many other shops Granny has. She sounds like a sassy lil’ thing, and her coffee tastes just fine.