“I’ll take the eight-piece family meal,” she says. “Mild, please. Coleslaw and red beans and rice. Two Cokes. Thank you.” Mom ordering greasy, semispicy food? “What are you doing?” I ask as she drives to the next window and shells over cash. I’m glad she doesn’t expect me to pay for it. “You don’t have me all figured out, just like I don’t have you all figured out either.” Mom reaches for the bag of food and hands it to me. “Let’s go to Charpentier Park.” I lean down to set it on the floor. My stomach grumbles again after sniffing the fried chicken. Is Mom putting me through some kind of weird test? The savory scent is especially tempting. When we get to the park, I grab the food and carry it over to a picnic table. I’m prepared to fail if this is a test. After we sit down, Mom hands me a plastic fork and a paper plate. She opens up the bag and pulls out a chicken drumstick. My mother bites right into it without wiping her hands first or scraping off spices.
