Arkansas supper time is basically a friendly free-for-all. One minute, the platters are full. The next, they’re gone, like magic.
Or like everyone suddenly remembered they were very hungry. I’ve watched grown-ups subtly (and not-so-subtly) jockey for the last piece of fried chicken, and mashed potatoes have sparked more low-key elbow action than I ever expected. There’s something wonderfully chaotic about it.
Plates arrive stacked high, smells hit first, and suddenly the table feels like a playful battlefield where everyone’s a little competitive and a lot hungry. Cornbread dressing? Forget about it…