Family Reunions Are Just Gladiator Arenas with Fried Chicken
If you've ever had the experience, you can envision the scene. Small voices and stomping feet running to and fro like a long-tailed cat pouncing through a room full of rocking chairs, folding tables creaking under the weight of a Swiss Army's worth of CorningWare, and the whispers... the godawful whispers of who brought what, and why God may strike that offending party with a bolt of lightning before the day is out.
You are in one of two places: a church potluck or, more likely, a family reunion.
Potato salad is always the wildcard. Aunt Sue's been bringing hers for years, but here comes Cousin Tammy with her 'modern take,' and now we're off to the races. If you think the Hatfields and McCoys had a bitter feud, you've never seen a Southern family reunion where two cousins bring competing potato salads.
It all seems to start off well, but eventually, one of them is bound to be in a circle half naked, brandishing a paring knife like Sting in the movie Dune.
Let's just say everyone remembers the time Grandma said Tammy's potato salad tasted 'store-bought.' That wound hasn't healed.
Planning a Southern family reunion involves more negotiation than an arms treaty. Who's bringing what? Where's it being held? And for the love of all that's holy, is there enough fried chicken?
Southern family reunions are equal parts love and rivalry, where deep-seated grudges resurface over mayonnaise choices, and everyone pretends not to notice Uncle Harley drinking too much sweet tea that he keeps in a metal travel cup. He sips and smiles with an increasingly blank stare like he's listening to a heavenly orchestra that only he can hear.
My guess is that's pretty accurate if we're being perfectly honest.
Once the meeting ground is decided, you'll find yourself somewhere fitting, like Kennesaw Mountain. It won't be a matchup of the old Blue and Gray but more like varying shades of yellow.
You roll up with your casserole in tow, scanning the crowd like a general assessing the battlefield. You're looking for alliances and threats—mainly, who brought the good deviled eggs. In our case, it was usually my mother.
I've never eaten a deviled egg in my life, although I have been threatened with potential impacts on my health in a physical form for not doing so. My father was on my side. He called them "Your Mommy's Stink-em-up Eggs." He wouldn't eat them, either.
For some reason, they were as popular as quarters in a bubblegum arcade, and the trays emptied within the first 20 minutes. People were sampling dishes and whispering like food critics at a Michelin-star restaurant. "Is that paprika or just red food coloring?" someone asks. The shade is palpable, and if Momma hears you, you might have some wounded pride by the time she finishes with you.
It was, in fact, paprika out of a metal can. She didn't know or care if it was Hungarian, hot, or sweet. It was just red and in a tin. It could have come from South Alabama or Upstate New York. The name on the can was all that mattered. Because it was what the holy book of Southern Living said it was, right there in the recipe.
The food table is where the drama brews. Aunt Sue claims her usual spot, but Cousin Tammy parks her potato salad right next to it, and now there's tension in the air thicker than chicken gravy. It's always potato salad. Too much mayo? Too little? Did someone use Miracle Whip? These are crimes punishable by side-eye and gossip.
Casseroles are another battlefield. Aunt Edna's green bean casserole has been a staple for decades, but this year, someone added almonds, and now there's political unrest. It could lead to a violent revolution should the wrong parties become offended.
Even the kids aren't immune to this type of culinary warfare. Factions form over dessert, with coalitions rallying around banana pudding versus chocolate pie. It's like the playground version of the Cold War. Sometimes, you have to just bring a cobbler to keep the peace.
If you thought for a split second that there were no rules on the fried chicken, you have miscalculated. They will get judged and torn apart like a group of cackling old biddies angry at the pretty new girl in church. Who soaked them in buttermilk, and who didn't? Did the bird get fried in a cast iron skillet like it should have, or did it get a proper baptism in a vat of hot oil with the preacher present?
There's always someone who phoned it in and brought a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. That poor bastard earned the ire of the elderly and the adoration of the young with cheering and ovation. Children love KFC like a fat kid loves cake. They'll attack those red and white boxes and buckets like an assault at the Battle of Resaca, but it will be a case where everybody wins.
Like all good conflicts, this one will eventually come to an end. No matter how delicious it was. Everyone packs up their leftovers, except for that one sad dish nobody touched. You know the one. It'll be the talk of the family for months. It probably involved some sort of fish or a gel that wasn't Jell-O.
On the drive home, everyone recaps the day. Who gained weight, who's still single, and, of course, who 'won' the food war. The potato salad grudge match will live to see another year. Nobody got stabbed or had an ear bitten off, so all's fair for the moment.
Southern family reunions aren't just get-togethers—they're traditions, competitions, and a chance to subtly prove you're better than your cousins. Sure, we bicker and compete, but there's something comforting about the chaos. It wouldn't be a family reunion without it.
Families may fight over potato salad, but deep down, it's all love. Well, mostly love. A little good old-fashioned spite. But that's just the Southern way.
And next year? I'm that rascal bringing the KFC buckets. Let the games begin!
