My name is Tyler, I’m 28, and I’m from Mobile, Alabama. If you know anything about Southern families, you already understand one thing:
Food is not optional.
Food is love.
Food is tradition.
And at my grandma’s house, food is also… inescapable.
This all started a few weeks before Easter when I decided I was going to try cutting carbs for a while. Nothing extreme — just trying to eat a little healthier, reduce bread, pasta, all that.
When my grandma called to confirm I was coming to Easter dinner, I casually mentioned it.
I said, “Yeah, I’m trying to cut carbs right now, so I’ll probably just eat lighter.”
There was a pause on the phone.
Then she said, very calmly:
“Well… we’ll see about that.”
I should have recognized that tone.
Easter Sunday arrived, and as usual, my grandma’s table looked like something out of a cooking magazine.
Ham, casseroles, deviled eggs, vegetables, and of course…
Biscuits.
Big, fluffy, golden Southern biscuits.
I made a mental plan.
Stick to protein. Avoid bread. Stay disciplined.
I filled my plate with ham, green beans, and a few sides that looked relatively safe.
Everything was going well.
Until I took my first bite of the green beans.
They were… incredible.
But also suspicious.
Because mixed in with the green beans were small, soft chunks of something.
I took a closer look.
Biscuit pieces.
My grandma had somehow added biscuits into the green beans.
I laughed it off and moved on to the next dish — a squash casserole.
Same situation.
Delicious.
Also full of hidden biscuit pieces.
At this point I looked over at my grandma, who was watching me very carefully.
She smiled and said, “You like it?”
That’s when I realized what was happening.
She had taken my “cutting carbs” comment as a personal challenge.
Every single side dish on the table had been… enhanced.
Mac and cheese? Extra breadcrumb topping.
Stuffing? More bread than usual.
Even the salad had what I’m pretty sure were croutons made from biscuits.
At one point I said, “Grandma… did you put biscuits in everything?”
She responded, completely serious:
“Just making sure you don’t go hungry.”
The rest of the family found this absolutely hilarious.
My cousin leaned over and said, “You really thought you were escaping carbs in this house?”
By the end of the meal, I had basically given up.
Because avoiding carbs at my grandma’s table wasn’t just difficult.
It was structurally impossible.
As I was leaving, she handed me a container of leftovers and said:
“Take some home so you don’t forget to eat properly.”
I didn’t even open it until I got back to my apartment.
Inside?
More biscuits.
At this point I’ve accepted the reality.
You can try to cut carbs.
You can make a plan.
But if your Southern grandma decides otherwise…
You’re eating biscuits.
Whether you know it or not.
