We were at a friend’s house for dinner not too long ago, and as soon as we finished the main course, the hostess cleared the table.

We joined in, thinking it was time for dessert and coffee. We helped slice up the cake; but as soon as the first person finished their dessert, the hostess once again jumped up and started picking up plates and forks.

I felt a little sad that we were missing out on one of the best parts of dinner – the after-the-meal conversation.

Here we were, grownups in a world filled with political upheaval, terrorism, the fate of the Astros, LSU and Aggie football but we weren’t taking advantage of an opportunity to let our food digest as we leisurely discussed and solved the world’s issues.

Growing up, lively discussions were as much a part of the Hebert Sunday dinner as mashed potatoes and gravy. Even though politics are supposed to be a taboo subject, we Heberts did not follow that particular rule because it was ever so much fun to rile up the relatives.

My grandmother, a staunch Democrat who grew up with Franklin D. Roosevelt, was a first-hand witness to the Depression.

She said if we put a Republican in the governor’s office in Louisiana, we’d all be “goose steppin’ down Canal Street.” Throw in my brother, who was president of the Young Republican’s Club at our local high school, and those dinner conversations could get quite heated.

But the best person to egg on was my father. He grew up in the Eisenhower days and firmly believed the Communists were behind every political malfeasance that came to light.

The words “it’s a communist plot” were his final answer to every political argument we had around that oval dinner table.

To this day, 15 years after Dad’s passing, whenever we hit a stalemate when debating the quandary of what the world’s coming to, the final word will be “well, it’s a communist plot.” That releases the tension and everybody’s on good terms again.

And then there’s the family story of the true definition of heartburn. One Sunday over dessert, my grandmother said heart burn wasn’t really in the heart. We all nodded in polite agreement and then moved back to the conversations we were having.

“Yep, heartburn really isn’t in the heart,” my grandmother said to the ceiling.

“I didn’t know that,” said my mother, the eternal peacemaker.

Once again, we all went back to our conversations.

“That’s right,” my grandmother said. “Heartburn really isn’t in the heart.”

At this remark, my sister buried her head in the napkin, but we could see her shoulders heaving with laughter.

And then my middle sister, who’s always had a rebel streak, made a statement.

“You know, heartburn isn’t really in the heart,” she said with a straight face.

My grandmother agreed with her wholeheartedly, looking at her like she was a genius. At that point, we all had to leave the dinner table with our napkins over our mouths so Grandma wouldn’t see how hard we were laughing.

Now whenever there’s a lull in the conversation around the dinner table, someone invariably says “You know, heartburn isn’t really in your heart.” And that starts the laughing all over again and the need to explain the joke to newcomers.

I thought about those dinner-table conversations as my friend was hurrying to clear off the dessert plates so I stopped her.

“Sit down, let’s talk and we’ll clear the table together later on,” I said, putting my hand on her arm. “I’ll tell you all about heartburn. Did you know it’s really not in the heart?”

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.