How To Bake The Perfect Pecan Pie

“Yea, that’s it Luke…I’m jealous.” Megan air quotes.

“Hey, all I’m saying is we’ve still got the love, still got the love we made,” he sings.

I laugh. “Luke, I never took you for a Reba McEntire fan.”

Luke takes the carafe from the holder. “Lauren, you would be surprised what you might like if you open your mind…maybe even find yourself a guy.” He twirls the liquid into his cup as if he is a barista at Starbucks. “Isn’t that right, babe?” He glances back at Aurora.

Aurora nods her head. “That’s right baby, you just have to open your mind to see all the things your mind was meant to see.” She rubs her lips together. I’m not sure if this is a cue for another make-out session either way, I need to exit this room.

I take a swig of my coffee and head for the door. “I should go say hi to Winter and River, before I leave.” I turn the knob, hoping for a quick exit.

“Where are you going?” Aurora stuffs the rest of the second muffin into her mouth.

Darn…almost made it. “I have some Thanksgiving errands to run—a few things to pick up at the store. That’s all,” I say, trying to be vague. I’d normally ask if anyone else needs or wants me to pick something up for them. But Aurora never needs anything simple. It’s always some rare health food find, and I already have to make two stops before the stores close.

“Would you mind picking up some loose decaffeinated oolong tea for me?” Aurora rubs her tummy and picks up her fork to plow more food into her mouth. Luke eyes her stomach as if he wants to rub it as well.

“Mom, where’s the bacon, my little flower petal needs to fill up.” Luke raises his cup in the air.

“Oh honey, it’s all gone. We’ll make sure to have extra for tomorrow’s breakfast.” My mom picks up her pencil and crosses off a note on the side of her game.

“Um, let me look at my list as well.” Megan checks her binder. “Oh I see here on my grocery list, I’ve already bought everything. I guess that’s what happens when you plan things properly.” She shrugs her shoulders and flashes her teeth at me in her quasi-business-to-customer-speak-smile.

“Well, I just found out last night I was making the pie.” I cock my head at Megan.

“Oh, poor Worwen just found out about the peecahn piiie,” Megan says in her fakest baby-talk voice.

“Megs, you know green is not a good color on you.” I wink at her.

Megan laughs. “You’re right and I’m actually glad that you are taking part in the meal this year.” She pulls me in for a side hug and kisses my head. Jasmine, cucumber, and roses invade my nose. Poppy, her favorite perfume. I squeeze her back. Having her acceptance and support means a lot.

I glance back at Aurora. Obviously, I can’t say no to a possibly pregnant woman. “Could you just write down what you need? I don’t want to forget.”

My dad walks into the kitchen wearing a big smile, a navy polo shirt and khaki shorts. “Hey, it’s the bird, come give me kiss.” He motions me toward him. I smooch his cheek and we hug, the kind of hug I really like. My favorite kind of hug, one from my dad. He has just the right amount of embrace, its firm but not too crushing.

“So, Grandmother wants me to make the pecan pie this year.” My mouth opens into a wide grin. I am quite proud that she has requested this task of me. Pecan pie is a big deal for Thanksgiving in most American houses, but for mine it is the crème de le crème of Thanksgiving. If the pecan pie didn’t happen it would be like Thanksgiving was a trial run and we would have to redo the entire dinner again. Which wouldn’t be the worst thing, I’m sure everyone would appreciate eating the rest of the meal a second time. But regardless, if I mess up the pie, it will not go over well. I can’t say I’m not nervous about it. I’ve never made a pie in my life. The last time I baked something, or rather the last time I tried to bake something, was in Home Economics and it turned out awful. My teacher said she could smell the incorrect substitution of baking powder for baking soda. She went into great detail about her trained nose. I’m not sure if this is even conceivable, but I have not forgotten the hard muffins I pulled out of the oven and had to toss in the trash. “No birds would eat those Lauren, you could kill them.” I shake my head. Is it possible for a baking soda/powder change to actually kill something?

“Well, then you better get on it, you know the stores close early today. Which reminds me, I’ve got to run to Golfsmith. I’m getting low on balls.” My dad leans in and kisses my mom on the lips. After thirty years of marriage, they are still as affectionate as ever. I appreciate that they love each other and all, but seeing more PDA, is not exactly something I look forward to on my visits home. However, my parents keep theirs to pecks vs make-out sessions like Luke and Aurora. I can’t imagine kissing a guy in front of my family.

“Oh, yeah I remember Luke mentioning something about your swing being off the last time we were here.” Aurora shovels a ton of eggs into her mouth. All eyes were on her, not a good idea to mention my dad’s swing being off. Yikes. I’m not going to stick around to see how that plays out. I take that as my cue and exit quickly.

I run outside. Darn. I want to see Winter and River before I leave for the store. Hopefully the tension in the kitchen will have cleared by the time I have to pass through again and possibly I can avoid any other items Aurora or the maybe-baby might need.

“Aunt Lauren!” Winter and River scream and run toward me. They’re playing near the tree that Brian has used to build their tree house. The sight isn’t pretty. There are all different-sized wood planks, some with jagged edges. Some of them appear to have been sanded down. Yet, there isn’t a similar-sized piece of wood in the bunch. Did he even use any building plans or simply cut up some wood and begin nailing? Hopefully my mother will say something regarding the safety of this thing. Surely, she knows that monstrosity will only come crashing to the ground once anything heavier than a toothpick is placed on it. The sharp edges impaling— No, I don’t even want that visual.

“Hi, Winter. Hi, River. How are you?” I squeeze their small little bodies tight. Winter is almost a mini-version of Aurora except the eyes, she has Luke’s chocolate eyes and River is an exact replica of Luke, same dark curly brown hair with matching eyes. They couldn’t possibly be any cuter. Luke and Aurora definitely make great looking kids.

“We’re good. Can you play with us?” Winter’s auburn buns wobble just above her ears. I guess it’s mother-daughter buns this year.

“Oh, I wish I could, but… You’re it!” I tag her and take off running in the opposite direction. My heels aren’t the best for running in grass, but I’ve already committed to this game. I can’t disappoint those darling little faces. I try and run on my toes to avoid getting stuck in the grass.

She squeals with delight and chases after me, forgetting River is an easy target. He seems to wobble back and forth in place not quite sure what do to. He’s only three. Figuring out how tag works is still something new to him. Winter on the other hand is an expert at the wise old age of five and she seems to be gaining on me. We race several circles around the yard, and then she eyes River and moves in on her prey.

“Tag. You’re it!” she yells at River, almost knocking him over.

He glances up and races toward me. I pretend to rush in the opposite direction and fall in the yard. He tackles me, and I’m squashed to the ground. I’m thankful my parents did not run their sprinkler today. The ground is dry.

“Tag. You’re it!” he yells with so much excitement that he spits a bit on my cheeks.

I wipe the saliva off my face and stand up. “Okay. To be continued.” As much as I would love playing tag all day, I’ve got to get the pie made. I brush the grass from my skirt and wipe my shoes off on the doormat. It’s my dad’s favorite football team. His friend Buddy gave it to him for Christmas last year and said “now you can walk all over the boys, just like everybody else.” I’m surprised my dad is using it. However, I wouldn’t be surprised if my dad hasn’t given Buddy a similar gift for his rival team. When I make it back to the kitchen door, Aurora is drinking coffee. Isn’t that a pregnancy no-no?

Aurora rubs her belly and gives me her list. Tea is not the only item. Time is of the essence, so I decide not to argue over the additional items. I take the list as I make my famous closed-mouth smile.

I go upstairs, give myself the once over in the mirror, eye make-up is great, but perhaps a dab more of gloss. I swipe the brush of my Cranberry Heaven across my lips and toss the tube back in my purse. I swing the straps over my shoulder and turn the knob. I close the door to my room, I don’t want the young detective duo of Winter and River to rummage through my things in search of dress-up clothes. I take two steps in the hallway. Megan’s voice is coming through her bedroom door, it almost sounds like she is in an argument.

“I just don’t want her to mess up the pie.”

“You have to give her a little faith.”

“Brian, you have no idea, what you are talking about. Lauren is not a baker. The pecan pie is a big deal. Everyone will be really upset, especially Grandmother and I don’t want her to have her feelings hurt. You know Grandmother isn’t doing well and she probably gave the letter to Lauren by accident.”

“Megan…you know the letter was written to Lauren, give her a chance, she might surprise you.”

“Maybe, but I think it’s best if I take out an insurance policy for her.”

“What are you saying?”

“Maybe, I’ll make a pie and hide it in case hers doesn’t turn out.”

“That’s a bad idea.” Brian opens the door to Megan’s room.

My eyes are about to pop out of my head. I take in a deep breath.

“Oh, hey Lauren…uh…”

I shake my head. “It’s okay, I’d feel the same way if I was her.” I suck the insides of my cheeks in. I’m not going to cry. Not over pecan pie. I rush past the door and charge down the stairs as fast as I can without falling. I hustle to the door. A car. I need a vehicle.

“Mom, can I borrow your car?” I wipe a lone tear from my lash. It’s not really crying if it’s only one.

“Sure, honey. The keys are in my purse, you better hurry, remember what your dad said, the stores close early today,” she yells back at me from the kitchen.

As I grab the keys from her turkey beaded purse, I push the home button on my phone. Yikes. It’s almost noon. I do not need any more setbacks. A tear drops from my other lash. I will not cry over pecan pie. Ha! That rhymes. I hop into my mom’s car and inhale. She always has a flavorful car scent, I check out the dangling piece of cardboard shaped like a pie hanging from her rearview mirror, pecan. I take a deep breath and put the car in reverse. My map program searches for the address as I back the car out of the driveway on the hunt for the best pecans in Texas.

Chapter Two

I page down through the directions on my phone. The majority of my route consists of Highway 79—a fairly barren country road. It’s time to improve this road trip. Cue the music.

I turn on the radio. No sounds come out. Like any typical person, I twist the volume knob all the way to full blast, and there’s nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada. At the very least a monophonic ocean should be heard. A new six-disc changer sits where my mom’s factory-installed stereo used to be. What type of music is in my mom’s CD player? Let’s hope button number three is cruise worthy. Sometimes my mom has good tunes.

Button number three has transported me back in time to the eighties. I grab onto my ears, trying to shield myself from future nightmares. The sounds create visuals of oatmeal soaked with blood. What is this, the soundtrack from The Golden Child? I shake my head and clutch the steering wheel. The noises change. They’re no longer Tibetan monks, but something much different. I have no freaking clue what sound is coming out of the speakers, but it’s not normal. I feel like an alien has invaded the stereo and is trying to communicate with me through their native tongue. This girl did not get the Groupon for Rosetta Stone. I don’t speak or understand alien or whatever it is that’s screeching through the car.

Pushing every button over and over doesn’t stop the sounds. Rihanna isn’t singing, “Please Don’t Stop the Music.” Rather, I’m screaming, “Stop the noise!”

The off button is staring back at me like a cruel joke. It doesn’t budge. I try turning the volume knob all the way off. It falls into my palm.

“No!” This can’t be happening to me.

I inhale and begin pushing all the buttons, trying to short-circuit this sadistic machine. Yet, the weird sounds clamor on. I have no choice but to unroll the windows. The wind roaring outside the car is my only salvation against these horrible, repetitive beats.

I lean my head out the window to try and silence the clamor. Whoosh sounds are pouring in through my left ear while my right is full of offbeat wind chimes and deep throated chanting. This is torture. What the hell is this music? Actually, that’s an insult to musicians. This is noise. My mom doesn’t listen to this. It sounds like something you might hear in a patchouli factory or something.

“Aurora!”

Aurora must have used my mom’s car earlier and listened to this…this…abomination. I’m driving fifty miles an hour down an open Texas highway with nothing but road in my rearview mirror and even if someone was near me, they still couldn’t hear me because of this blasting noise! This is the worst.

The little blue dot on the map is a bit farther than I thought it would be. Halfway there, super! Half-full thinking, right? I try to tune the monstrosity out of my head. A text message pops up on the screen. It’s from Megan. Not really interested in reading what she has to say right now. The little red circle with the white number one can stay in the upper right corner of my green box. I’m not going to check it out.

Go to your happy place, Lauren, go to your happy place. What is my happy place? A beach—yes, a beach. Ooh, white sands. It’s powdery. Powder reminds me of the brown water I had to choke down this morning. This is not my happy place.

Go back to the beach, Lauren. Okay, I’m in the sand. There’s a tan, hunky guy bringing me a margarita. He smiles and offers me the frozen goodness. It’s rimmed with big chunks of salt. I lick the salt and take a drink. Ooh, that’s tasty. The breeze from the ocean gently blows my hair, while the sun is warming my skin. Paradise.

Bumpity bumpity bump. Oops! I’ve merged into the other lane. Thankfully, I’m still alone on the road. No close calls there. I shake my head. Regardless, I need to pay better attention. I scan down at my phone again. I’m three-fourths of the way there.

“Move, blue dot, move!” I shout into my phone.

This noise is beyond horrible. It’s like something out of Zero Dark Thirty—the kind of sounds used to break terrorists. This could possibly be worse than waterboarding. Okay, maybe it’s not that bad. My phone beeps at me. Another text message, she can be so persistent. As if she can will me into responding. Not going to happen. I’m not even reading it Megan, so there.

Deep breaths, Lauren. Just concentrate on breathing and driving. You can do this.

My chest rises and falls. I wipe some of my hair from my eyes. I am not a fan of hair blowing in the wind, at least not at this speed. These better be the best freaking pecans in Texas. No, the planet. Scratch that, the world! I shake my fist at my car’s ceiling.

They probably are the best in the world. My grandmother has impeccable taste. She always has and most likely, despite this possible lapse in judgment, still does. These pecans will be the crunchiest, tastiest pecans that anyone has ever sunk their teeth into.

Hmm, does my grandmother still have her teeth? I run my tongue along the tops of my own. Each ones feels securely in place. Having dentures has always been a fear of mine. But the idea of dental implants is even scarier to me. The idea of a dentist drilling into my jaw to secure the metal to hold onto a fake tooth. I shake my head and shoulders. I need to focus on good things.

Thinking about my grandmother brings happy memories. She is a sweet woman. I can do this. The perfection of the pecan pie is my motivation. I ignore the chanting from the stereo. My blue dot is getting closer to the destination. I breathe and concentrate on the road.

My phone beeps again. This is getting ridiculous, doesn’t Megan realize I’m driving? There is a law about no texting and driving for a reason: it’s dangerous. I roll my eyes.

Finally the Tibor’s Pecan Farm sign appears in the distance. Obviously the pecans stand on their own accord, because this sign has seen better days. It’s flapping in the wind, surely flipping pieces of rust with each buckle of metal moving back and forth. I can’t imagine it surviving a stronger wind than this. If I hadn’t grown up in Tornado Alley, I’d be doing more trembling than the sign and looking for cover. The pecan orchard is massive. There have to be thousands of pecan trees and they are so evenly spaced. I bet they look amazing from a plane. I nod my head in amazement and turn my wheel to the left as I ease onto the unpaved road. The parking lot is packed with cars and people. Where were all these cars on the road?

Everyone is staring at me. Some people are giving me unfriendly stares. An older woman with a young girl is eyeing me with one of the largest slack jaws I have ever seen. Ah yes, my patchouli music. I momentarily forgot due to the distraction of finally finding the pecan farm. I roll up the windows as fast as the motors will allow, desperately hoping that I’m drowning out the sounds. Fortunately, I find an empty spot at the back of the parking lot. I steer my mom’s obnoxious vehicle in between the two cars, neither of which has left much room for me to park. But I manage to squeeze the car in. I turn the key to the left and slump my shoulders.

The vanity mirror reflects a magnificent sight. There’s nothing like a windblown mess to reel in the guys. Not that I would expect to find any at a pecan farm in the middle of nowhere, but that’s beside the point. I channel my inner Marilyn and get out of the car. This is good. This is good. I can do this.

I try to comb through my hair, and my fingers get stuck. Really? I shake them out of my tangled locks, wincing at the pain with each pull. This is going to require some serious conditioning. Which reminds me, Aurora put some sort of health-nut, free-of-dyes, and ingredient-specific conditioner on my list. Maybe I’ll borrow some when I get home.

I throw my purse over my shoulder as though I’m fastening a holster and do my best at marching into the store. However, in my strappy red heels, this is nearly impossible. I look more like a duck wobbling than a soldier going into battle. The plywood door is rough and filled with possible painful splinters. I push it open. You would think with the amount of cars in the parking lot this place could afford a better door or at least sand this one down. Bells jingle and jangle against the lawsuit waiting to happen as I step onto the creaky floor. More plywood, or what is that called…subfloor? Really, bare subfloor? Yikes, this place needs a dream makeover or something. I shake my head and take in a deep breath.

The inside of the building is small, especially given the number of people who are in it, and it smells. The aroma is so strong it’s almost like sticking your head into a burlap bag filled with shelled nuts. It’s the woodsy scent that usually fills the kitchen and the fireside hearth when you crack open nuts over the holidays, because when else are you cracking nuts? Unless the pistachio market campaign is working, and everyone is “getting cracking” even during non-holiday moments.

All of the customers are in a single line, even though there are two cashiers. Both seem to be rundown and in need of a 5-hour Energy or shot of vitamin B, because they’re taking their time running their registers. Tap, tap, tap, tap. “Cash, card, or check?”

Who uses checks?

Both customers already have their cards on the counter. It takes a second for either cashier to notice, and then in unison they slowly pick up the cards. Tap, tap, tap. Ka-ching. “Please sign here.” The customers rapidly sign their names as if they’re going nuts to get out of here.

The store has several empty barrels placed throughout, and in the center are three aisles consisting of five wooden shelves each. They appear to be empty, too. I start to freak out.

Like a beacon of hope, there is a plastic bag, smaller than my purse, pushed to the far end of one of the shelves. I race across the shop and snatch it up. I clutch it to my chest as if it’s the last morsel of bread, and I’m stranded on an island with no hope of rescue.

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