How To Bake The Perfect Pecan Pie

After college, I luckily scored a job at a credit card company. I usually keep my job a secret and say I work in finance. A casual conversation can go into Mach 5 mode of anger if I mention that I work for a credit card firm. It’s almost as if I said I was an assistant to the devil himself. A few years ago, I would get on my pedestal and defend my employer and their practices, but now I keep it all on the down low.

Speaking of low, the water pressure went from a nice blast to a dribble right in the middle of shampooing. I still have to make it to the conditioning part of this routine. The suds are crinkling in my hair. Maybe if I turn off the faucet, I can trick it into restarting the blast I enjoyed earlier. Turning the knob over to the right again changes nothing. It’s almost as if my parents hadn’t paid their water bill.

That couldn’t possibly be the case. A blast of cold water shoots into my left eye. I wasn’t hoping for a Niagara Falls experience, but the surge will get the suds out. With as much effort as I can muster, I begin to rinse my hair of the shampoo. I try to run my fingers through my hair, but with no conditioner, they barely make it to the nape of my neck. I mush the back of my wet locks together, not a bubble sound to be found. Great. I turn off the knob, hoping to conserve a little water until it’s time to rinse. I plop a huge amount of conditioner into my hand and begin massaging from the bottom all the way to my scalp. Goosebumps have sprouted all over my body as if I’ve seen a ghost. Most likely the water ghost, as the real deal seems to be gone.

There’s no way I could have gone without my conditioner. It’s one thing to deal with the humidity, but humidity combined without conditioner is like going outside without pants—a definite no for this gal. Even in late November, humidity is ever-present in Central Texas.

I scrape my fingers from my scalp, down to the ends of my hair. Yes, conditioning is complete. Here we go again. I turn the faucet on and cross my fingers, praying for hot.

The water is still cold and no longer blasting, but rather shooting out drops of water at a time. The heavens are not on my side this morning. I glare at the faucet, wanting to rip it from the wall. But I know that wouldn’t go over well and I’d find myself sitting at our dining room table for a family meeting.

I sigh and take a deep breath. I turn the knob off again and count to five, hoping my computer restart method will work for Brian’s idea of an improved showering experience.

Showtime. I turn it back on. I’m blasted by hot water. This will do. I make a one hundred and eighty degree turn and rinse the suds from my hair. The creaminess from the conditioner is gone and the water at my feet is clear. That’s it. Bath time is over. I turn the knob all the way to off, thankful I’m clean and can exit this unenjoyable experience.

Talking to my mom about the showerhead situation is a debate I’m not ready to dive into. Especially, not since Brian is wearing the shirt she gave him. I’ve got at least twenty-four hours before I’ll need to use it again. I grab my towel from the toilet. The warm, fuzzy terry cloth is soft on my skin and smells of home. This makes me smile. I wrap it around my head and put on my bathrobe. I’m the epitome of a classic fresh and clean commercial with a makeshift turban wrapped around my head.

Back in my room, I gently tap my phone’s screen to pull up my favorite weather app. Weather.com shows a big sun with black sunglasses (as if the sun would need to wear sunglasses? I guess they didn’t think that one through) smiling with the text 74 degrees written across it. Fantastic. This isn’t the type of temperature I’d have in Baltimore. An added bonus to visiting my parents over the holidays—having nice weather. I pull out a short-sleeved, white blouse and unroll a flared, red skirt. I am an expert packer. I read this article in Cosmo or something about traveling and how rolling your clothes instead of folding avoids wrinkles and it was right. This is a major perk for me, because I am not an ironer. I ruined my favorite Express white buttoned down shirt in high school while pressing it and to this day I have yet to pick up another iron. I am now anti-iron. My dad is a huge fan of ironing. Whenever I am home for a visit, I get the pleasure of extra pressed clothing thanks to him. In my shoe bag, I drag out a pair of matching red, strappy sandals. I heart these shoes so much. Brianna and I had both eyed them while shopping and lucky me, they only had my size. Brianna is incredibly tall and has the shoe size to match. While I am not so tall. I refuse to use the title of “short” or vertically challenged, I’ll pass on that one too.

Starvation tugs on my stomach. Of course, I’m not a poster child for malnutrition, but I should’ve taken my mom up on food last night. I’d just wanted to go to bed. Now I’m woozy and weak. Is it possible to pass out from being extremely hungry in the morning? Hopefully, I’ll never have to find out. I bet my mom has whipped up a batch of palatable food for me. As I know Megan has yet to shower, which means she won’t be coming downstairs until she has primped properly.

I mosey down the creaky maple wood stairs. Pictures line the hunter green papered walls along the way. Images of Megan, Luke, and me are in various frames of all shapes and sizes. Some of the photos are undeniably cute while others are awkward and staged—the kind of photos you’d see on funny cards at Target. Despite this, my mother chose to keep them up. My favorite photo is black and white of my family at Bush Gardens; we all dressed up in pioneer attire and posed properly. Luke and my dad have shotguns, Megan and my mom have wooden spoons and I opted for a doll. I was only five in the photo, which makes the doll seem legit.

Would she notice if I replaced the photos with different ones? This might be a challenge for when I return at Christmas. Better yet, I could see if I could restage the photos with newer ones of us. That would be pretty funny. Especially our acrobat impression. Megan and I had hung upside down from a tree while holding Luke’s feet steady for his one-armed headstand. We were practicing for our Cirque du Soleil auditions. Of course we were only kids pretending, but it sure seemed real. Eventually we gave up on that idea and moved on to other areas of expertise. Like for instance, I’m great at walking down stairs without falling. I nod as my foot misses the last step, almost as if I planned it. Except I didn’t. This is probably a side effect from lack of food.

Mmm…blueberries. Yay, my mom must have made her famous blueberry muffins. They are from a box and the blueberries are in a can. However, they are incredibly scrumptious. I’ve had my share of blueberry muffins at fancy bakeries all up and down the east coast but there is something different in my mom’s version. I’ve never been able to place it. Maybe, it’s because she made them. The stairs lead into the kitchen. It has a light oak corner table with a bay window that my mom added some cushions to for extra seating. The windows are lined with a French chef scene. It’s not the standard chubby French Chef you would see at local retailer’s mass market produced. Instead it features a mime French chef with a beret dancing in the kitchen, he is dressed in white and black horizontal striped bow neck long-sleeved shirt with black tight pants, a red scarf is around his neck and he has a connoisseur mustache. At the stove is a glamourous female chef almost a cross between Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s with Nigella Lawson’s body. She is wearing a pink frock topped off with a string of pearls around her neck and is stirring a big pot of red sauce. Crimson text along the print of the white fabric reads “Toujours Cuisinez Avec Du Vin”, repeated throughout and it is framed by a crimson satin hem. The window treatment has varied over the years. Yet, my mom changes out the cushions with the season or theme. Today they are turkeys dancing with cornucopias on their heads. The pillows’ background has small writing that reads, “Do the Gobble Wobble.” Musical notes are dispersed throughout. Eating at the table is almost like being in a diner booth, with its closed-in, festive atmosphere.

My mom is in her spot—the only actual chair for the table. She’s wearing her fuzzy blue robe with white clouds scattered across it. Her salt-and-pepper, wavy hair is parted to the side, held in place by two cow-face bobby pins. She’s drinking coffee out of her The Price is Right mug. She swears she made it on the show. I have searched the internet high and low and have never been able to find any evidence to prove this. Her Sudoku puzzle is spread out on the table. The lady loves her Sudoku and crossword puzzles. She has a bookcase in the office full of completed crossword puzzles. Last year my dad bought her a new bookcase for her Sudoku books. It already has two complete shelves. Ever since Bob Barker left The Price is Right she has quit watching.

“Hi, honey. Did you sleep well?” Her eyes remain focused on her puzzle.

“Pretty good.” I rub my back, wishing that were true.

I’ve slept better, a lot better. The bed has the same mattress from my elementary days. That was at least fifteen years ago. The mattress definitely needs to be replaced, but I don’t think it’s a top concern for my parents. Especially since I’m the only one who ever sleeps on it. Although, I’m still not convinced of any possible Brian upgrading attempts.

Maybe after my wedding they’ll get a queen-size bed with a new mattress. At least it’s what they did when both my brother, Luke, and sister, Megan, got married. A brand-new bed at my parents’ house as a wedding gift seems lame. I guess if I was getting married that would be the least of my concerns. I haven’t even had a serious boyfriend since Scott. I roll my eyes. What a waste of two years. I know hindsight is twenty-twenty, but you would think I was completely blind the entire time I was in a relationship with him. Of course it was a long-distance relationship and every time we reunited it seemed like we were a part of the theory of absence makes the heart grow fonder but in reality we really weren’t. I think the idea of a relationship was what I wanted but I wasn’t thinking clearly about the “who” factor. A warm body does not equate to a good mate. During an extended weekend get together I took an extra day off of work to make it a four-day holiday instead of three, and I realized how much I really did not care for Scott. I don’t think it mattered to him. Which was even more proving of the fact, we didn’t belong together and thus I ended it. This was almost a year ago.

My dating life in Maryland has been non-existent. For one, I put in a lot of overtime at work. And two, it seems as if I’m only ever really aware of my single status when Brianna is dating someone and then I’m all alone sitting on my grey couch watching The Vampire Diaries on repeat. I imagine I’m back in high school and having to deal with two guys wanting to be with me. It’s always such a difficult choice to decide between Damon and Stefan, I usually end up choosing both. Ha!

I reach for a mug from the cabinet. It’s my favorite cup to use when I’m home. I bought it for my mom at a garage sale a few summers ago. It reads “I’m Going Pecans” and has a woman sprawled across a pile of pecans, looking as if she has given up. I have yet to see my mom ever use it. On the counter rests the ancient coffee machine. My parents have had the same coffee machine for as long as I can remember. Though, it seems like I’m consistently having to replace my own. My dad would point out this is because “they don’t make things the way they used to anymore. Nope, it’s all a scheme to keep you buying more. More crap, I’ll say.” I try not to give him any type of electrical gear for presents, I would not want to hear about how it broke after x amount of times of using it. Nope, I stick to clothing for him.

Where will the liquid sitting in the clear carafe fall on the coffee scale? My mom makes the weakest pot of coffee on earth, except for one of my friends from college who actually reused the grounds. Who does that? I like a strong, freshly ground brew with real cream.

I pour the brown imposter into my mug and sprinkle in some non-dairy powder flakes. The flakes sit on top of the liquid staring back at me. I can almost imagine them laughing at me. The little flecks of white remind me of fish food. Just like fish food it would take a while for them to sink. I grab a spoon from the drawer and stir. Might as well make a like a fish and enjoy it, I definitely need the caffeine. I take a sip. Yup, I’m home.

“Did you read Grandmother’s letter?” My mom puts her pen down and gives me an endearing, motherly once-over before she returns her gaze back to the puzzle. She picks her pen up and scribbles along her paper, making tiny whistle-like sounds with her mouth.

I grab a fluffy blueberry muffin from the yellow plastic basket on the counter and take a big bite. My mom always lines bread baskets with a paper towel. Maybe this year I will buy her a fun bread basket towel for Christmas. This might even win points with Aurora because my mom will be able to reuse the towel instead of trashing it.

“Yes. She wants me to make the pecan pie this year,” I say, hoping my mom might volunteer to help in some way. My mom is a Betty Crocker kind of cook, she bakes a bit, but doesn’t dance outside of the lines of standard homemade American fare from the 1950s era. Meatloaf, spaghetti, mac and cheese, casseroles, those are all my mom’s forte.

My mom is engrossed in her puzzle. I take another swallow of the faux coffee. If this were bad wine, drinking enough would alter the taste. Unfortunately, there isn’t a level of consumption that will improve bad coffee. I cringe as the bitter liquid slides down my throat.

“Oh, honey, that’s great.” She marks more on her paper. “Did she give you the sacred recipe?”

“Yes, she did. I have to guard it with my life.” I pretend to do a karate move, chopping the air and kicking out a quasi-front kick that any sensei would shake their head at in disappointment. Fortunately my mom isn’t even watching, so my ungraceful move isn’t witnessed.

“Where is it now?” Her gaze doesn’t leave the paper. This must be a tough one.

“Upstairs.”

“Hmm, I didn’t notice a security team protecting the stairs. Why don’t you go and get it and we can see what ingredients you’ll need.” She dots the paper with the end of her pen. No doubt she’s checking her work.

After taking another sip of the brown water with a hint of chemically created cream, I head back to my room for the letter. I take the envelope out of my purse and fold the paper so that the recipe part is the only thing showing. The rest of the note is a little too personal for my mom to read. I place the newly creased paper into the envelope. I shake my head, and then walk down the stairs, trying to avoid the steps that creak the loudest.

“All right. Let me go over these ingredients, so I know what I need to buy.” I take out the paper once again and hold it in front of me as if I’m announcing some great news. If I mess up this pie, this holiday will unravel and my family will never let me live it down. I bet my mom would even manage to snap a photo for the hallway as a permanent reminder.

“Rude much? Lauren, can you wait your turn? Mom and I are going over the Thanksgiving menu…it’s kind of a big deal.” Megan presses her lips together and nods at me. Her long blonde hair is wrapped up in a bun held together by her “I’m the Boss” black pen.

I squint my eyes at Megan. She pulls on her silver scarf which is lying perfectly over an aquamarine sheer blouse. I bet my dad would not approve of this top. She has some sort of camisole underneath but still. I wonder if he would care about the skinny black jeans she is wearing. My dad doesn’t expect us to dress like Quakers but he is very particular about sheer clothing and hem lengths.

Did she seriously just Bogart Mom from me? I take in a deep breath. I need to be patient. Megan does prepare the most phenomenal Thanksgiving meal, each year she tries to outdo herself with the latest and greatest Food Network offering. I do not want to jeopardize the masterpiece meal. I refill my coffee and sprinkle some more powder in. With my spoon I swirl the flakes as if I could recreate some sort of picture like the ones at fancy coffee shops with my favorite lattes.

“So as I was saying, Mom you can handle the turkey this year if you want.” Megan has on her game face as she swivels her body and focuses in on my mom. The turkey has always been a point of contention between the two of them. My mom is extremely generous in her kitchen by allowing Megan to take over, but she has always made a big deal about being the person who makes the turkey. Every year Megan sends my mom a kajillion recipes about brining a turkey, frying a turkey, and smoking a turkey. Each year my mom informs Megan she appreciates the recipes but she “will be making it the old-fashioned way”.

My mom giggles. “Oh Megan dear, you do such a lovely job with the rest of the dishes, I’ll keep to making the turkey though, now what’s on your menu?”

I take a sip of my coffee; getting a glimpse of this polite back and forth between my mom and Megan is always quite entertaining.

“Alright then, this year, I’ll be making the green beans with toasted hazelnuts, lemon zest, and shallots—”

“What?” My mom slams her pencil down on the table. “Oh Megan, you know Grandmother loves the green bean casserole, with the crispy onions on top and the mushroom soup.” My mom stares directly at Megan as if she has disgraced the family.

Megan blinks her eyes repeatedly as if she can blink enough times to come up with a jackpot of an answer, except we aren’t in Vegas and no triple sevens will be coming from this situation.

“Mom, I know Grandmother lik—”

“Likes? No, Megan, she loves the green bean casserole, other than the pecan pie it’s her favorite part of Thanksgiving.” My mom gazes down at the floor and then back to Megan. “Even over the turkey.”

“But Mom, I just want to try something new this year with the green beans.”

“Megan, I love what an amazing cook you are. But some things…some traditions, they need to be upheld. Sometimes you have to consider what makes a holiday special for other people and not just yourself.” My mom picks up her coffee mug and takes a sip.

“Fine. I’ll be back. I need to check on something.” Megan storms up the stairs. It’s almost as if we are back in time with Megan trying to change things up too much and my mom finally putting her foot down. My mom is really considerate of Megan’s feelings, but she does have her limits.

“So, um…can I go over the ingredients?” I raise my eyebrows.

“Sure, honey, but you better hurry, that pie isn’t going to make itself.”

I roll my eyes before I focus on the list. “Light brown sugar, white sugar, butter, eggs, all-purpose flour, milk, vanilla extract, pecans, and molasses.”

“I have the butter, milk, vanilla, and eggs, but you’ll need to go to the store to get the flour, sugars, molasses, and pecans,” my mom says. Her focus is still on the puzzle.

Reading the recipe again to myself, I notice the emphasized portion.

Remember Lauren, the pecans have to be from Tibor’s Pecan Farm in Caldwell. This is the secret part of the pie. The pecans from Tibor’s Pecan Farm are the best in Texas. You know how I feel about subpar things. I wouldn’t have given you the recipe if I thought you would get the wrong pecans.

Oh, Grandmother. I’ll get the right pecans. Hmm, Caldwell. That’s like an hour drive if I remember. It’s been at least ten years since the last time I’ve been to the farm. I remember going as a child with my family to the annual Tibor Pecan Festival. People from all over Texas showed up in droves to participate in the pecan pie contest. The year my grandmother won was a big deal for my family. My dad’s investment firm got a huge increase in business following the festival. He would tell his clients about how his mother had made the winning pie and they would beg him for the recipe but of course he didn’t have it to share. Shiat. How am I supposed to be able to bake an award-winning pie? I bite my lip and sigh.

I pull out my phone and type “Caldwell” into the map program. Two hours and five minutes. It’s almost eleven o’clock. I do need to get a move on.

Aurora saunters into the kitchen. “Namaste, Lauren.” She does some sort of yoga/bowing movement. Her auburn braided bun wobbles a bit when she stands still. Has she ever even attended a yoga class? Her ankle bracelets jingle as she walks over to the stove. She puts several blueberry muffins on her plate and a large helping of my mom’s scrambled eggs. At least somebody likes them. They have always been a little too dry for my taste, but hey to each their own.

“Hi, Aurora. Where are my niece and nephew?” I ask, noticing a movement from her tummy. The movement was clear and not anything to be confused with stomach flexing. No, this motion that occurred underneath Aurora’s shirt was most likely from a baby. Is Aurora pregnant?

“Winter and River are in the back, playing. Brian made them a tree house.” Aurora rubs her stomach and sets her plate down on the table across from my mom.

“Ahem.” Aurora closes her jade green eyes and raises up her open palms to the ceiling, takes in a deep breath, and then wiggles her fingers through the air as she lowers them to the table. She opens up her eyes as if she just experienced something amazing and nods.

Besides the wiggling of Aurora’s fingers, I know I saw something move in her stomach, but I’m not going there. No way. If Luke and Aurora have some baby news, I’ll wait for them to share. I snag another muffin from the yellow plastic basket and take a bite. Delicious. My mom makes the fluffiest muffins. I normally don’t like eating past the top, because that’s the best part of most muffins, but with my mom’s, I always go all in and finish the entire thing.

“Hey oh, look who it is, my favorite running buddy…I mean walking pal.” Luke darts towards me. He is soaking wet from sweat no less. His race bib is still pinned to his shirt and he’s wearing a tank top which means if he tries to hug me, I’m going to encounter his sticky, stinky, armpits. Yuck. I raise my right hand to him as if he would be willing to high five instead of a full on hug. He bypasses my hand and reaches for me. I am immediately soaked in his sweat and body odor. My face is directly parallel to his pits. I gag. I scrunch my nose and squeeze him back quickly hoping he will make it a short embrace. We don’t need to continue on with this wetness and I have already had a shower.

He releases me. “I missed you out there today, Lauren. I think the timers did too.” He laughs and grabs a mug down from the cupboard.

“Hey babe, make sure you get enough to eat.” He turns and faces Aurora. “You know what I’m talking about.” He walks over and kisses her. Not a peck or even a smooch. But a full on French kiss. An open mouth, lots of tongue and smacking sounds. My mom crinkles her eyebrows and focuses on her puzzle. I do not understand why they feel the need to do this in front of us. And yet, it seems as if they only do this when my dad isn’t present. I would seriously pay money for them to do this PDA ridiculousness in front of my father. I can’t even imagine how he would react. Which is why I would pay good money to see it and also, hopefully however he would react would be enough for the PDA-palooza to stop.

Aurora moans. “Oh Luke.”

My eyes cannot be pushed out of my head farther without falling out. I’m not even watching but the noises. Good grief, get a room!

“Seriously Luke, nobody wants to see that.” Megan steps into the room with her Thanksgiving binder. She has each year’s previous menu sectioned off. I bet she has all of her current recipes color-coded and exact times listed in the margins of when to do what.

“Hey now, just cause me and my little flower petal still have the love after all these years, doesn’t mean you have to be jealous.” Luke kisses Aurora once more on the lips but it’s actually a peck.