Gina Calanni - How To Bake The Perfect Pecan Pie

Author Bio GINA CALANNI currently resides where bluebonnets line the highways in the spring, but she prefers the rock flower anemone from under the sea. Above the ocean’s surface Gina likes to bake with her three boys and run like the ground is crumbling beneath her feet while being dragged along by her pooch, Schatzi, Music is the backbone of each one of Gina’s books and her favourite button to press is repeat. At the end of the day Gina’s glass of wine is always half full. You can follow Gina on Twitter at @Gina_Calanni Instagram: @gina_calanni Check out www.ginacalanni.com to keep up to date with the latest scoop in her life.

Acknowledgements To my boys, Ethan, Beck, and Jude – your happiness is my joy. To my mom – thank you for always standing by my side and cheering me on, for the countless conversations and knowing that I always had to hang up first, even though I didn’t want to. To my friends and familia – thank you for taking me seriously and being supportive through my journey to publication. To my pooch Schatzi, thanks for being at my feet during those late nights and really getting me.

Dedication To Kierney Scott – who I’ve been Going Pecans for since July 14 th of our special year. You are my favorite pumpkin spice author of all time, writing with you was a surreal experience, but it doesn’t even come close to the friendship that we have. You are my life partner (NL) and for that I am eternally grateful.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Dear Lauren,

As you know, I am no longer capable of certain things. Despite this, the Hauser Family Pecan Pie must be made. Thanksgiving will not be able to exist without it. Perhaps that is a bit harsh, or dramatic, if you will. However, it is very important that certain traditions continue long after I am gone. The Hauser Family Pecan Pie is one of them. The instructions for this masterpiece have been handed down for many years. Actually, scratch that—this is the first time the recipe will leave my possession since I created it. Nonetheless, this magical formula is one of our family jewels, so you must guard it with your life. This is not dramatic as the recipe does hold value.

Now, Lauren, I have many granddaughters and even living daughters, but I have chosen to bequeath my secret to you. Because, as we both know, you are my favorite. But for heaven’s sake, please do not share this with your sister Megan or any of your female cousins. Actually, don’t tell anyone. This information you can confide to your husband only. Speaking of which, you aren’t getting any younger, dear. Well, now I won’t go on about that situation in this very important letter.

Finally, Lauren, below is the recipe. Please, dear, hold it close to your heart and remember to follow it to a “T”, or rather to a “P” as in “Pecan Pie”.

The Hauser Family Pecan Pie Recipe

Ingredients:

1 cup light brown sugar

¼ cup white sugar

½ cup butter

2 eggs

1 tablespoon all-purpose flour

1 tablespoon milk

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

10 ounces chopped pecans from Tibor’s Pecan Farm

1 tablespoon molasses

½ teaspoon of salt

Directions:

1 Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C).

2 In a large bowl, beat eggs until foamy, and stir in melted butter. Stir in the brown sugar, white sugar, and the flour; mix well. Last add the milk, vanilla, molasses, salt, and pecans.

3 Pour into an unbaked 9-inch pie shell. Bake in preheated oven for 10 minutes at 400 degrees, then reduce temperature to 350 degrees and bake for 30 to 40 minutes, or until done.

Flaky Pastry Pie Crust Recipe

Ingredients:

1 ¼ cups all-purpose flour

¼ teaspoon salt

½ cup butter, chilled and diced

¼ cup ice water

Directions:

1 Combine the flour and salt in a large bowl.

2 Cut in the butter until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs.

3 Stir in the ice water, a tablespoon at a time, until the crust mixture forms a ball.

4 Wrap dough in plastic wrap and refrigerate for 4 hours or overnight.

5 Sprinkle flour onto rolling surface. Roll dough out.

6 Place crust in pie plate, pressing evenly into the bottom and sides.

Pecans must come from Tibor’s Pecan Farm. The pecans have always come from this place, so that is the way it must stay. Some day you should ask how to grow a pecan tree in your own yard using one of their seedlings. That is, of course, another situation.

Lauren, do not deviate from the recipe at all or the pie will be ruined as well as Thanksgiving. No, this is not your grandmother being dramatic. This is an actual truth.

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.

Lauren, I am counting on you, as is the rest of the family. I know you will succeed. You always have.

With warm thoughts and a cheer, Happy Thanksgiving Dear!

~Grandmother

I gaze at the letter. Of course I’ll add it to the collections of notes I’ve received over the years. The crisp, white paper has a thin, gold border, and at the top is my grandmother’s monogram: SLH—Sandra Lauren Hauser (I’m her namesake). I trace my fingers over the SLH. I ought to order my own stationery. Then again, who would I need to write a letter to?

With the letter in my clammy hand, my heart begins to palpitate. Little beads of sweat form along my hairline. The family pecan pie? Oh, Grandmother . I set the moist paper on the bed and sigh. I grab my comforter. It’s soft and fluffy. I want to pull the covers up over my head.

I’m not much of a cook, let alone a baker. Doesn’t she remember the catastrophes I used to create as a child? Bread that didn’t rise, muffins that were hard as rocks, and—everyone’s favorite—my flat, greasy chocolate chip cookies. Why would she give this to me? Surely, Megan would have been the smarter choice. Following directions and making the family proud is more of her thing.

Megan is my happily married sister, who is a fantastic chef and fits this role perfectly, whereas I’m the single and purportedly unreliable sister. Megan has a signed cookbook from almost every one of the Food Network celebrity chefs. She could probably open her own restaurant and be one of the ten percent of restaurateurs that doesn’t fail. Basically, Megan strives for success and whatever Megan wants, she gets.

My mom gave me the letter last night when we got home from the airport. I was exhausted from the long day of traveling. As usual, my flight had been delayed. After we unloaded my suitcase, I kissed my mother and went straight to bed without even a glimpse of the letter. My grandmother has given me many notes over the years. I knew last night that whatever was in this one could wait until I had a good night’s rest. Then again, it might have been better to read at night.

I grab my phone from the nightstand and press the home button. Small, white text flashes 8:02 a.m. Ugh. Wine time—if only that “a” was the letter “p”. Shiat, I wish I’d set my alarm. I hate oversleeping, especially with the time difference. I’m sure my mom thinks I’m being lazy, not conquering the day and all of the other cliché thoughts about early risers. My brother Luke is most likely doing his annual 10k Turkey Trot run and here I am still in bed. Luke is a major athlete. He has completed the Iron Man more times than I can remember and finished one too many marathons. I tried running the 10k Turkey Trot with him one year but ended up lost in the swarm of jogging strollers. Tons of fit moms and dads were cruising around me like I was an old lady and I was probably younger than most of them by several years and not pushing fifty pounds of kid and caboodle. By the time I had made it to what I had assumed was the finish line, it was only actually the 5k marker. I pretended to be with the 5k group and placed quite well. I was rather proud of myself. I’ve never placed in a race ever. Luke did not let me enjoy my prideful moment and reminded me of the fact that the 5k race starts ten minutes after the 10k race so I had actually gotten a ten minute head start on the real 5k racers. I wanted to keep this a secret and bask in my fast time but he would not allow it. He practically dragged me up to the scoring station and made me turn in my race bib. That was our last race together.