My truck has recently developed a terrible pull to the left, and it only happens in the mornings and exactly as I pass by a little family diner called "Momma's Kitchen".

What kind of place is "Momma's Kitchen" you ask? It is the kind of place that truckers and country folk stop to eat breakfast before work and the parking lot is always full, which is always a good sign if you ask me. The prices are fair and the food is, well, it comes from Momma's Kitchen, so you know it has got to be good. If you have never been served a cat-head biscuit (an overly large, made from scratch biscuit) with your scrambled eggs, toast and grits, you haven't eaten at the place.

You probably gain a pound or two just by stepping inside the door to order. The friendly service is queen and the greasy cuisine is the king. The aroma of frying bacon, tenderloin, sausage, country ham, eggs, and the biscuits baking nearly sends me into a food-smelling induced coma. I'm a regular, and the minute they lay eyes on me they start working on my order.

I stirred my medium coffee with two creams and one sugar, while I waited patiently for my peppered tenderloin biscuit with Dukes mayonnaise smeared on for good measure. It's what I call my "heart attack in a brown paper sack". The place was buzzing with activity. I don't ever recall seeing an open seat when I make my regular pit stop, and folks gladly wait while other travelers wait for the "grab-and-go".

This particular morning Momma herself was manning the register, dishing out orders, ringing people out, and generally doing what Momma does best-running the show. The banter in the back between the short order cooks coupled with the rattling of pots, pans and dishes is a symphony to my ears. Call me sick if you will, but I find comfort in it.

Then it happened.

Momma was ringing out a white-haired, elderly couple and kindly asking them if everything was okay with their meal. Her big, blue sparkling eyes were magnified through her coke bottle reading glasses, and her smile said it all, she knew full well they had enjoyed it thoroughly. She just wanted to hear it one more time. Well, that is where this story takes a turn for the worse. I heard something come out of the nice elderly lady's mouth I thought I'd never hear. It made me instantly feel uncomfortable and uneasy. "We liked everything but those awful biscuits you make," the lady reported.

To make matters worse, it was quite noticeable these folks weren't from our part

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