Gina Calanni - How To Bake The Perfect Pecan Pie

“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.