We were in New Orleans, staying at one of those nice hotels, celebrating another trip around the sun—also known as a birthday. The kind of hotel where lunch involves a buffet and the food has little labels in front of it, which I appreciate because I’m probably not the only person who doesn’t fully understand the difference between couscous and pâté.

So there I was, doing what I always do at buffets—loading my tiny plate with a little bit of everything, including some green stuff that surely must be good for me—when I overheard an exchange at the next station.

It was between a mother and a child, probably eight years old. And what struck me first was how calm they both were. No whining. No raised voices. Just steady, matter-of-fact conversation.

The child said,
“I just want fries.”

The mom said,
“They have chicken fingers.”

The child replied,
“I just want fries.”

The mom said,
“You like salads. They have salad.”

The child said,
“I just want fries.”

The mom tried again,
“They have the cheese you like.”

And the child, without missing a beat, said once more,
“I just want fries.”

All of this was delivered in the same calm, monotone voice—by both of them. But somewhere around the fourth round, I felt my own blood pressure start to rise.

Not outwardly, mind you. Internally.

Inside my head, a voice was yelling:
Woman! The child has clearly stated her position. She wants fries.

And then it hit me.

This wasn’t about fries.

It reminded me of a recent trip home, sitting at the kitchen table with my parents. Dad was eating. I was drinking coffee. Comfortable. Content. Full.

Mom asked,
“You want something to eat?”

“No ma’am, Mom. I already ate.”

“Well, we’ve got that yogurt you like.”

“Mom, I already ate.”

“You want a banana?”

“I’m good, Mom. I already ate.”

“There’s some of that sausage Phil cooked left.”

“Mom… I already ate.”

And then, somewhere deep in my soul, I thought:
Lord, have mercy. Just give me a biscuit so Mama will be happy.

And I did.
Because sometimes eating isn’t about hunger.

It’s about love.

That mother in the New Orleans hotel wasn’t ignoring her child. She was offering care in the only language she knew—options, nourishment, making sure her child was okay. Just like my mom has done my entire life.

And my mom? She’s not pushing food because she doesn’t listen. She’s offering food because feeding people is how she loves them. It’s how she shows care. It’s how she stays connected.

I realized something standing there with my little buffet plate: we don’t always need what’s being offered—but we do need the love behind it.

The child wanted fries.
The mother wanted her child fed.

I wanted peace.
My mom wanted me happy.

Sometimes the easiest way to get along is to accept the biscuit.

At least, that’s how I remember it.

As Best As I Remember It.