During the early 1900's it was custom in the South to pay pastors with large dinner presentations at various houses throughout the neigborhood.
On one of these days, Henry Pete Harlee, my great-grandfather, came home after working 18 hours on the railroad shoveling coal and taking care of the mail. Expecting a good meal, he was instead greeted at the door by James Page Jr.
"Grandpa, I'm hungry. Grandma and Ma won't feed me. Instead they're giving the food to the preacher."
Henry Pete approached the table only to find that the best cuts of chicken were eaten along with the cobbler and cathead biscuits. As he blew with blue language, he decided the best way to take care of this situation was to go in the back and get his shot gun. As he came out ready to shoot, the preacher ran out of the house.
Seeing the trouble they were in, Grandma Inez and Grandma Mabel quickly recooked the whole dinner on their wood stove (which is not an easy feat). Once done, they placed the food down at the table for James Jr. and Henry Pete to enjoy alone. And the preacher (and no other preacher) came to eat at their house again.