How to Bake the Perfect Pecan Pie

by Gina Henning

  “Lauren, this is only a morsel of what I’d like to prepare for you.” Jack takes a bite and chews with a hunger that suggests the sandwich isn’t fulfilling.

  Where did this come from? I flitter my eyelashes and take a drink. Does Jack want to make me more food? As in, want to make something more of this moment than pecan pie? I was expecting a kiss by the cupboard but I was obviously wrong.

  I take another bite and let the flavors mull around in my mouth.

  “The pies are probably cooled by now,” I say.

  “Definitely.” He pops the last of his sandwich in his mouth and stands up. He walks to the far end of the kitchen and opens the pantry door. I finish the last morsel of my sandwich. I really want to lick my fingers to enjoy any last remnants of the butter, but I’ll refrain. My grandmother is a real stickler for licking one’s fingers. “Germs, Lauren, do you want to get sick?” She always questions me. No, Grandmother, I do not want to get sick.

  Jack returns from the pantry with a pizza-sized box and places it on the counter next to the pies. He wraps one of the pies with foil that he’s taken out of a drawer. Jack securely places the pie inside. Good planning skills.

  I need to turn down the heat of this room. Is there a vent or an air duct that can extract some of this sexual tension? Pies and wine, are they an aphrodisiac? And I thought it was chocolate and wine. Or maybe it’s chocolate and wine for when you’re alone? Another thing to research later. But who am I kidding, I’m not going to research that, the only thing I want to research is Jack. I lick my lips. Out of the corner of my eye, Jack is staring at me. I focus my attention on finding my purse and bite the inside of my cheek to refrain from saying or doing anything that I’m not ready for yet.

  My purse is sitting on the counter like a rescue boat of distraction. I blow air through my lips to create a makeshift fan on my face. With my purse on my arm, I take our plates to the sink and run hot water on them. Steam rises in the air. Perspiration beads form at my hairline. I wipe them away.

  I’m not ready to melt with Jack yet. I live in Maryland. He lives here. We should let this be simply pies. The level of attraction might not even be mutual. I might be overthinking the whole thing and Jack is just a nice guy who wanted to make pie with me. A nice guy who rescued me and came within inches of kissing me. I roll my lips together.

  I turn off the hot water and head for the door. The brisk weather is going to be the only thing around here that can cool me down.

  “Ready?” Jack asks me with the pie in his hand.

  I’m not sure if I am ready to leave. This will be the last time I see him and for some reason this makes me sad.

  I’m at a loss for words. I nod to answer his question. He opens the door to the kitchen and I follow behind him down the hallway and out of his rental property place of business. Business, this is all this was. Business. The business of baking a pecan pie. Jack is a business man and this is his focus. I have my own focus. I made the pecan pie for my family and now I get to experience the success of this with them.

  The fresh air hits my face—a small remedy. I shudder, but take comfort that for once the chilly breeze is an ally as it tempers my blood. I’m still overheated from the kitchen even with all of my internal pep talks. The mind is a strong thing.

  Jack opens the car door for me and waits while I get in. He places the pie in the back seat and closes my door. He runs around to the driver’s side of the car and slides into the seat. Immediately his presence warms me.

  “If you take I35 south my parents live in a neighborhood off of 2243.” I peek in his direction.

  “Gotcha.” Jack pulls out of the parking lot. The night is dark with only a sprinkle of light from the stars.

  He clicks on his blinker to merge onto the highway. There are only a few other cars on the street, this is probably a combination of the weather and time. It is late.

  “I think I’m really getting the hang of this whole Uber thing.” Jack cuts his eyes towards me.

  I laugh. “Well, if you decide to make a go of it, I’ll be happy to write you a recommendation.”

  “That’s good to hear.” Jack opens up his palm and raises his right eyebrow. “How many stars would you give me?”

  “Well your timing was good especially since I didn’t plan on needing a ride, so you definitely get bonus points for that. And then let’s see your car temperature is set at a comfortable level-“

  “Car temperature? Lauren you have to jazz up the review. How am I supposed to build a clientele list with typical features like temperature?” Jack shakes his head at me.

  “A clientele list?” I wrinkle my eyebrows.

  “Yes, repeat clients. Ones that will want to ride with me again.”

  I purse my lips to the side. “I guess you’ll just have to work on your charm if you want to have a jazzed up review.” I raise an eyebrow at him and roll my lips together.

  Jack nods his head and rubs his pointer finger and thumb along his chin. “Point taken.”

  I flex the veins in my throat. I was only being silly, I hope he isn’t insulted.

  “The next right is my parent’s neighborhood.” I point to the upcoming turn.

  Jack rocks his head back and forth and slows the car down to turn. The main road in my parent’s neighborhood is a three mile loop, either way you go my parents’ house is exactly in the middle.

  The ride is quiet. Too quiet. I can’t help but break the silence. “So what are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

  We are in my parents’ neighborhood. It’s a planned community in the outskirts of town. All of the streets are named after flowers, and there’s a park with a jogging trail and a pool. The tennis court is being built next year, or that’s what my parents are told each year at the homeowners’ association meetings.

  “We have a meal for the residents around 1p.m. If you feel up to it, please come by.” Jack’s stare reaches past my irises. It’s almost as if he knows that by holding my attention long enough I won’t be able to look away. That I’ll be forced to deal with the emotions that follow those kinds of stares.

  “Are you making the entire dinner or just the pies?” I rub my knees, in an attempt to distract myself.

  “I’ll be there to oversee things, but the staff will be making the dinner. My only contribution to the meal is the pecan pies.” Jack winks at me.

  I can’t help but laugh. I slant my eyes to the right and shake my head.

  We pull up to my parents’ house. It’s a two-story craftsman style with olive green siding and white trim. Two oak trees sit on each side of the sidewalk that runs up to the front door. There is a glow from the bay window on the first floor. It’s the kitchen light. Is my mom still up?

  “Jack, you really saved the day for me.” I grab his arm and squeeze it. “Thank you.”

  “It was my pleasure…I enjoyed baking with you, Lauren.” He tugs on probably what is the only loose piece of my hair not mashed together with the rest of it of my frizz nest.

  Jack opens his car door and hops out. He runs around to my side. I’m already halfway out of the car. His shoulders shrug as though he is disappointed. Did he expect me to wait for him to open it?

  Jack reaches into the backseat for the pie. He gives me the box and grabs the rest of my groceries from the trunk. We walk up the sidewalk to my parents’ doorstep. Little solar lamps light our way. They have pilgrim bibs attached to the neck of them.

  My mom has already placed the Thanksgiving mat in front of the door. This year it’s a DJ Turkey who has its wings over two record players and is wearing a pair of big headphones. There is a speech bubble coming from the turkey’s beak that reads “Hhhh hhhhh Happy Thhhhanksgiving…word to your hen.” Wow. Each year my mom’s decorations really rise to a new level, of…I’m not sure what.

  The porch light which has been changed to a cornucopia-shaped bulb is glaring down on us. I turn the cold steel knob but the door is locked. I smile out of embarrassment and struggle to find the keys in my purse.
Why are they always so hard to find? Items in my purse sift through my fingers as I reach all the way to the bottom, gliding over a tube of lip gloss and my wallet. I scrape the fabric, hoping for a jingly sound or copper against my skin. The unlatching of a lock interrupts my search.

  My mom is standing at the cream-colored steel door, in her robe—her Thanksgiving robe. It’s brown with colorful feathers made out of cloth that dangle from underneath her arms. When she stretches her hands out to the sides, it looks like she might fly away. This would be a perfect moment for her to take flight. On the front of the robe are two huge googly eyes centered in an unfortunate spot on her chest. Midway down, right at her waist, is the beak. It’s followed by the wattle, which moves as she walks. My mom’s favorite fuzzy, blue bunny slippers are on her feet. Yes, bunny slippers. Technically, they’re her Easter slippers. But my mom likes them so much that she has no problem with the clash of holiday attire. Her hair is a little frazzled as though she might have fallen asleep on the couch.

  “Honey, it’s so late. We still have to make the pie.” She opens the door wide, letting out some of the heat.

  “Hi, Mom. I’ve got the pie.” I show her the box and cock my head to the right. “This is Jack Walker.”

  My mom gives Jack the once over and nods.

  “Jack Walker, my mom, Lea Hauser.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Hauser.” Jack shakes my mom’s hand.

  My mom giggles. “Oh, please call me Lea.” She waves us in. I push past her to get out of the cold. I roll my eyes and vomit internally. Is my mom flirting with Jack? That’s weird and gross. Get a grip, Mom.

  “Jack, would you like to come in for a nightcap?” my mom asks.

  Jack smiles warmly at her. “Thank you, but I’ve got to get home.”

  “Maybe another time.” My mom is holding onto the door. I’ve got to assume that she doesn’t realize that the groceries Jack is carrying are for us. Perhaps my mom has had a few nightcaps with the way she is acting.

  “Yes, definitely. Lauren, where should I put these?” Jack lifts up the bags in his arms.

  “Follow me.” I push past my mom and head for the kitchen. Jack is at my heels, if I abruptly stop I suspect we would collide.

  I lead him into the kitchen, and turn around to see that my mom has joined us. Jack is staring at me as though he’s waiting for me to speak.

  I glare at my mom, with the universal sign of “give me a little privacy.” It becomes obvious she isn’t moving, so I clear my throat.

  Finally, she smiles at Jack. “Alright, well it was nice to meet you, Jack.” She shuffles out of the kitchen with a wave.

  “You as well.” Jack nods to my mother and then turns towards me. His eyes are contemplating something.

  “It’s really late. I’m sure you have a big day with all those pies to tend to.” I put the box that I've been holding down on the kitchen island.

  Jack places the bags on the counter, and then traces his finger over my jawline. “It is late.”

  Breathe.

  He grabs my hand and squeezes it. I don’t want him to let go. But, we are at my parents’ house and who knows if my mom has forgotten something and decides to walk back into the kitchen. I inspect the floor as if I’m trying to decide whether or not I would choose this linoleum for my own house. I can’t maintain eye contact with Jack. He leads us to the door, and releases my hand. It’s almost as if he is releasing me. Releasing me from our moment. I bite the inside of my lip.

  My chest is heavy, but I manage to say, “Good night, Jack.” I don’t want to sound as if I expect something more than what today turned into, which I haven’t quite figured out yet.

  “Good night, Lauren. Sleep tight.” His head leans in for the slightest second, almost as if he is going to kiss me and then he nods and turns on his heel. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing that he changed his mind about the kiss or not. I suspect if our lips had actually made contact it would be even harder for me to turn away.

  I sigh and close the door behind him. My forehead touches the cold wood door and I shake my head. Get a grip, Lauren. I saunter back into the kitchen. The shelf in the back of the pantry is the perfect spot for the pie. I remove it from the box and place it on the shelf. Hopefully, it will be safe from any late-night snackers.

  I unload the groceries and find the other bottle of wine. That was nice of him to give me the wine, although I did pay for it. I take the empty pie box to my parents’ garage. There’s a sliding back and forth sound in the box. I open the lid. A blue piece of folded notebook paper is staring back up at me. I retrieve it from the box and unfold the paper, which is holding another piece of paper—a gold, rectangular-shaped note with my handwriting on it. It’s my check. The check I gave to Jack for the groceries.

  What? My eyelashes flutter. Why would he give this back to me? Maybe the note will have an explanation and maybe it will also explain when he wrote this. I take a deep breath and read it.

  Lauren,

  I enjoyed your company today. I’d love to see you again.

  - Jack

  512-555-5309

  Hmm…no mixed signals there. I need to go to bed. My cheeks are flushed and it’s not from the wine.

  Chapter Five

  I sleep better than I have in a long time. Maybe it was the comforting grilled cheese sandwich, or maybe it was a bit of intrigue from a fellow late-night baker. The note is on my bedside table. I read it a second time.

  I’d love to see you again.

  I sigh. I want this too… But, I’m not sure if that would be a good idea.

  I’m only here for the weekend. This is where my parents live not me. I have my own home with a mortgage attached to it and a completely separate life. I have a great job, scratch that, a great career. I’m set, well except in the romance department, but still. Well, crazier things have occurred, right? This is not happening, though. I live in Maryland, and he is Mr. Rental Property of some sort here in Texas.

  My phone is fully charged. I sit up in bed and click the green square text message app. I have ten unread messages. Six of them are from Megan and the other four are from Brianna. I read Brianna’s first, after all she hasn’t been scheming behind the scenes to make a pie in case I fail.

  Brianna: “How’s the Hauser Family Fun Weekend going?”

  Brianna: “Dang, that good? What’s happening you learning some new yoga moves with Aurora in the backyard…Om.”

  Brianna: “Okay, so this is awkward…It’s not like you to be so unresponsive.”

  Brianna: “Starting to get worried. About to call your mom.”

  I type back, the time stamp on the last message was from this morning. I hope I’ve beaten her to sending out an A.P.B. on my whereabouts.

  “Sorry, my phone died.” I press send and then continue on to my next message.

  “Happy Thanksgiving! I made the pecan pie! Can you –

  A text message from Brianna interrupts mine. “Likely story. Don’t you have 18,000 chargers?”

  Yes, at home. I do. I shake my head and tap the green square with the old fashioned white phone image. Brianna is obviously on my list of favorites. I select her number and the silence is broken by the sound of her voice.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, turkey head!”

  I laugh. “Turkey head? Are you getting sauced already? It’s only eight in the morning.”

  “It’s actually nine over here and besides it’s never too early for mimosas. So what’s going on?”

  “Well, I met a guy and I made a pie!” I scrunch up my pink comforter around my legs.

  “Say what? Is this Lauren Hauser?”

  “Ha, seriously Brianna. I actually baked a pie, the pecan pie for our Thanksgiving.”

  “The one your grandmother always makes?”

  “Yes, well you know, she’s at the retirement home now, so she gave me the task of baking the pie this year.” I nod my head even though Brianna can’t see this. I’m still on cloud nine about succeeding in the mak
ing of the pie. I know the true testament of my baking status will come only after it has been taste tested but as it stands right now, it is definitely appearance approved.

  “Okay, so you made the pie, that’s impressive…but how does the guy fit into the equation?”

  “Well, it’s a long story, I’ll fill you in on Sunday night. You’re still picking me up from the airport right?” Brianna is always my taxi to and from the airport unless we are traveling together, then we hire a cab and split the cost.

  “Of course, as long as I’m not hung over from today. My mom is bringing her friend to the Thanksgiving dinner and you know how my grandmother feels about that.” She coughs into the phone.

  I roll my eyes. “Brianna, sip the champagne not chug.”

  She coughs again. “Ha, I would inject it intravenously if I could, the tension in my grandmother’s house is ridiculous. Just because my mom’s friend didn’t like my grandmother’s turkey…I just can’t.” Brianna clears her throat.

  “I know, but take it easy. I’ll see you on Sunday, then.”

  Before I can say goodbye, the dial tone is ringing in my ear. No matter how many times I suggest she actually wait for me to say the words “good bye” she still just clicks in my ear. I’m surprised she is such a successful realtor with those phone skills. I contemplate reading over Megan’s texts but decide she can wait. Besides she is most likely too up to her ears in making breakfast and prepping for her Thanksgiving Day chef d’oeuvre, to even see if I have replied.

  I pull myself out of bed and stretch my arms. I wish I could extend them with enough power to pop my own back. I swish my shoulders from side to side and roll my neck. My pair of turkey slippers are staring up at me. My mom bought them for me several years ago, I’ve convinced her that it only makes sense for them to remain here as this is where I always spend my Thanksgiving holiday. I slide into the fuzzy brown coziness and the beaks light up.

  “Gobble! Gobble!” the turkeys say to me. I have tried repeatedly to remove the battery but I cannot seem to figure out where it is located. I shuffle my way toward the bathroom. The shower used to be my friend. Now it seems more like my foe. Regardless, I have to face the blast or drizzle because I desperately need a shower. I was too tired last night to even contemplate it and went straight to bed, scrapes, frizz-nest hair, and all.