How to Bake the Perfect Pecan Pie

by Gina Henning

  “Is there anything here you think your grandmother would want extra of? I have an inside connection.”

  “Isn’t that against the rules?” This time I bat my eyelashes intentionally.

  “Maybe.” He brushes his wrist against my hairnet bracelet, sending a pulsating shiver all the way up my arm.

  “My grandmother is eighty-nine years old. There is no way she can eat all of that,” I say. It’s reminiscent of an advertisement for how not to load one’s plate.

  Nodding his head in agreement, he stares down at my wrist. “Your bracelet keeps diverting my attention.”

  “You seem easily distracted.” I brush his arm—his biceps to be exact. “I’ll make a note not to wear anything shiny around you.”

  “Ah, so you do want to see me again.” Jack elbows me.

  “What?” I raise an eyebrow at him. My lips purse to the side.

  “One can only assume you intend on seeing me again if you are making notes about future outfits in my presence.” With his free hand he squeezes my waist.

  “Hey, what was that for?” I pinch him back and let my hand linger longer than necessary. I retract my hand as I realize we have an audience.

  “Just in case you were off in la la land, I wanted to bring you back to the present. I’m not one for hesitations.”

  My face is hot and it’s not because of the numerous eyes that are scrutinizing our playful flirtation in the middle of the dining room. Jack has leveled up his intent and is being direct.

  But I have a direct flight back to my life in Maryland on Sunday morning. I trot back to the table, almost like I’m a turkey. Heaven knows the aroma is tugging on my stomach, but I know if I come to the dinner table with any amount of fullness, Megan will have an absolute meltdown. She is very particular about everyone and their portions on Thanksgiving.

  I pull out the chair next to my grandmother and the now full table is silent. Are these people friends of my grandmother’s? Jack slides into the seat next to me. My grandmother peers over at Jack and me.

  “Jack, thank you for helping my granddaughter. She’s a very special girl. It’s quite something that she is still single.”

  My mouth is in my lap. I quickly retract it.

  “Still single? I thought your pl—”

  “Geraldine, it appears your lipstick needs some tending to, perhaps a visit to the ladies could render that.” My grandmother glares at Geraldine.

  Geraldine shoots up from her seat like a teenager and darts off in the direction of the restrooms.

  Jack pats my leg and whispers in my ear. “It’s all part of getting older.”

  My thigh is on fire. He leaves his hand there, massaging it with his thumb. Is he referring to my grandmother’s age or mine? Why is my grandmother being so rude? I didn’t notice any lipstick situation with Geraldine.

  “I’m merely repaying a favor. Lauren helped me bake the pecan pies last night,” Jack says. His fingers move a little higher on my thigh. My muscles flex and I crane my neck back.

  I wish we were alone to see how far those fingers would go. Everyone at the table is staring at me. I smile politely. Being center stage is awkward.

  “Oh, that’s nice,” my grandmother says casually as if Jack is talking about the weather.

  One of the women at the end of the table winks in my grandmother’s direction. My grandmother doesn’t acknowledge this. Instead, she cuts their eye contact. There’s no way she missed it. The lady pushes the food around on her plate and grins. Is this a symptom or maybe a side effect of some medication my grandmother might be taking? I crinkle my eyebrows.

  “Where’d the pecans come from?” the lady asks as she casts her direction to Jack.

  “Ethel.” My grandmother glares at her.

  “Sandra, only a question, I’m not trying to hog your time with your granddaughter and…Jack.” She plays with her food again. This time her lips are pursed together.

  My grandmother is squinting at Ethel and her chin is almost touching her chest as though she’s trying to silence her. I’ve seen this face before. Megan and I used to see that expression when we were giggling in church.

  “We actually met at Tibor’s Pecan Farm,” Jack says. He’s obviously unaware of the situation happening at the other end of the table.

  “Oh, those are some mighty fine pecans, best in Texas,” a man sitting next to Geraldine’s empty spot says. He winks at my grandmother.

  Is my grandmother blushing? Is she interested in this man across the table? I know my grandfather has been dead for twenty years, but still.

  “Pecan pie is something else. What recipe did you use?” Geraldine asks as she pulls out her chair, this time her face is a little flushed.

  My grandmother is shaking her head. The man next to Geraldine is grinning.

  “A very special one. Is everyone ready to try it?” Jack asks.

  “Lauren, please help Jack with the pie. He can’t manage it by himself,” my grandmother says. I’m pretty sure Jack can handle the pie on his own, but I’m not one to argue with my grandmother and I wouldn’t mind getting away from the table and whatever is going on there. Jack and I stand up at the same time and stroll in pursuit of pie. Pie we made together.

  The pie display is beautiful. Each table has three rows of pie slices ready for tasting. Whole pies sit on pedestals behind the dishes with the sliced pieces. Pumpkins, apples, and pecans are scattered over the tables creating a Sandra Lee-worthy tablescape. I want to try each pie, one by one. I don’t think my grandmother would approve. I also don’t want to seem like an overeater in front of Jack, or Sherry for that matter.

  “Am I missing an inside joke? There seem to be some ulterior conversations happening at the table.” I toss my head back. This time my hair is able to sway behind me. No frizz-nest hair wreckage today.

  “Oh, seniors are something else, you would be surprised the amount of drama that takes place here. I try and tune it out.” Jack grabs one of the uncut pecan pies and a server from the back of the table.

  “I wish I was able to tune it out but it’s my grandmother and I’m concerned about her mind.” I grab some plates and forks from a cup.

  “I’m in the same predicament.” Jack brushes my arm.

  “What?” I jerk my head back. “With your Aunt Minnie?” This is the only family member Jack has mentioned that could possibly be in the same predicament as my grandmother.

  “No, Lauren with you.” Jack does an about face and navigates his way back to the table.

  With me? I follow behind with the plates and forks. His pants couldn’t afford an extra inch of growth. What would Jack do if I pricked him with a fork? Screech? Maybe I shouldn’t do that.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. I hit the home button. It’s 3 p.m. We need to hurry and get to my parents’ house. They’re probably curious as to why we aren’t there yet. Shiat, we’ve missed the Macy’s day parade. I love sitting in front of the television with Winter and River and watch the huge floats soar in the air. My favorite float is Snoopy. Megan and I always take bets about whether or not Woodstock will be with him. As children we dressed as Snoopy and Woodstock for Halloween, three years in a row before my mom got rid of our costumes. Megan was always Snoopy, even though I really wanted to take a turn, but that’s Megan for you. I put the plates and forks on the table in front of Jack. There are several text messages from Megan that need to be addressed.

  1:30 p.m. Where are you? Aurora is driving me nuts. I could really use some interference in the kitchen.

  2 p.m. Seriously, Lauren, what’s the deal? If I have to hear about any more farm sustainability while mom is basting the turkey, the baster is going someplace where it will not be able to be used again. I don’t need lectures, I’m up to my ears in creaming the kale. Seriously, as if I don’t already know about farm sustainability. I have my own freaking herb garden!

  I text her back. Don’t do anything drastic. If you dispense of the baster, we will end up with dry turkey. And a very angry moth
er.

  Megan: Ha freaking ha, where are you?

  Me: At the retirement community with Grandmother.

  Megan: What’s the holdup?

  I want to text that the delay is Jack, but that won’t go over well, on many levels.

  Me: She wanted to have a bite to eat with her friends.

  Megan: Okay, well, wrap it up and get over here.

  Megan: And make sure she doesn’t eat too much!

  Me: Got it.

  Though, my grandmother could eat this meal and then some and still have plenty of room to expand. Her bones were practically popping out of her back when I hugged her. I toss my phone back in my purse. Out of sight. Out of mind. Everyone seems to be enjoying the pie. I beam at the table. I did it. Pecan Pie Perfection. The only sounds coming from the table are munching noises.

  “Darling, you shouldn’t use your phone at the table. It’s bad manners,” my grandmother says.

  “I’m sorry. It was Megan. She was worried about why we aren’t home.”

  “Who?” my grandmother asks.

  “Megan, my sister,” I say, hoping this refreshes her memory. My grandmother’s dementia is concerning.

  “Jack, dear, I could use your help,” Sherry says. Her mouth is curled at the corners, displaying her teeth as though she’s trying out for a pageant. Jack nods at me and the rest of the table.

  “Y’all enjoy your pie.” He follows after Sherry. Do they have something more than a working relationship?

  “Sherry is always bossing him around. I don’t care for that woman,” my grandmother says.

  Everyone at the table nods in unison. What is the deal with my grandmother? One minute she looks right through Sherry as though she’s never met her before, and the next she’s talking about her behind her back. I guess this could be a symptom of Alzheimer’s. I’ll have to research this later.

  “We should go, Grandmother.” I stand up and push in my vinyl leather beige chair.

  “But, my pie,” she says, though there are only a few crumbs left on her plate.

  “We have more pecan pie at home,” I assure her and help scoot out her chair.

  She stares off in the distance as if she is looking for someone, and then stands. Our tablemates are observing this search.

  “Sandra, it’ll all work out,” Ethel says.

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” I say. I understand why Jack prefers to tune out the chatter; it’s almost as if they are speaking a different language. Obviously, there is ulterior conversation happening or that happened prior to my arrival.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Lauren. It’s really good pie, you did your grandmother proud,” Geraldine says.

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” the man next to her says as we leave.

  Chapter Seven

  My grandmother is silent as we mosey our way to the car. She has never walked this slowly in my life. Our arms are linked but it’s like I’m dragging deadweight to the car and she probably only weighs one hundred and ten pounds. I open the car door for her to get in and she pauses as if she is waiting for an invitation to enter the vehicle. She studies the building like she is seeing it for the first time. Is she having some sort of forgetful moment and doesn’t know where she is?

  “Did you give Jack your cellular telephone number?” My grandmother places her hand on the door of the car.

  I fold my eyebrows into themselves. “No. Should I have?” I help her sit down with more force than I usually have to apply and bend down to lift her feet into the car. I close the door behind her and walk around to my side. I put the key in the ignition and start up the engine and back out of the parking lot.

  “How is he supposed to contact you?” My grandmother stabs her forehead with fingertips.

  “Why would he need to?” I roll my eyes at the windshield.

  My grandmother lets out a long sigh. “Lauren, if you’re not more assertive, then you will remain single.”

  I am speechless and happy for the short drive as we pull into my parents’ driveway. My mother’s car is in the garage, which means everyone should be home. This also means somebody else can distract my grandmother from her observations about my assertiveness.

  I help my grandmother out of the car. Despite her statement about not needing anyone to take care of her, she definitely feels comfortable using me as a crutch. I don’t mind, but I do think I might need to spend more time at the gym when I get back home. My chest tightens at that thought. I like being with my family over the holidays but there is this twinge of something else that makes me not want to think about leaving. We make it to the doorstep, and before I can grab my keys from my purse there is a click from the latch. My mother swings open the door. She’s no longer in her turkey robe, but has changed into one of her Thanksgiving sweaters. It’s green with an embroidered turkey being chased by a musket-toting pilgrim and a tomahawk-holding Indian chief. Her eyes match the turkey’s on her shirt. “Honey, what took you so long?”

  “Ask grandmother.” I follow the essence of heaven like a stray hound hunting down a barbeque stand to the kitchen.

  “Finally,” Megan shouts.

  “I’m so happy to see you, too.” I smile at her. “Watch out. Grandmother is focused on life paths today.”

  “Oh, really. Did it have anything to do with Jack?” She shakes her blonde hair. It’s in loose waves, a clear opposite to Aurora’s tight braids.

  “Does this family have a one-track mind?” I ask no one in particular.

  “Is this about Jack?” my dad says, entering the kitchen. He grabs a piece of salami from the antipasto platter on the kitchen island. It’s overflowing with prosciutto, sliced focaccia bread, marinated artichoke hearts, Havarti cheese, roasted almonds, and—what is that?—garlic-stuffed green olives. Delish!

  “Not you too?” I reach up to hug him. He kisses me on the cheek. The smell of his Old Spice aftershave tickles my nose. I can’t remember a time that my dad hasn’t worn Old Spice.

  “Jack Nicklaus is one of the best golf players to have ever graced the PGA tour.” My dad winks at me.

  I snag an olive from the orange dipping bowl. Aurora must be helping out, because there is no way Megan would have put the green olives in the orange dipping bowl.

  “Hey, Lauren. I’m sorry about the spare tire,” Brian says. For some reason everyone is hovering in the kitchen and staring at me. Did I spill some olive juice on my blouse? I inspect it. Nope.

  “No big deal, Brian. Thanks for getting the car this morning.” I wiggle a piece of provolone cheese from the platter and take a big bite.

  “Is Jack coming over for dinner?” my mom asks. She is shoving some prosciutto towards Luke to eat. He must have just taken his shower. He runs back to back races during the Thanksgiving holiday. His hair is still wet but I can tell by the aroma in the room, he is fresh and clean.

  “What? Why would he be coming over for dinner?” I ask.

  Why is my family clinging on to the idea of a romantic situation with Jack? Do I look like someone who needs a date? Isn’t it okay if I’m single? It’s not like I’m fortysomething, living with eighteen cats and a collection of bells or stuffed animals.

  “Aurora baby, come eat some of this prosciutto, before it’s all gone.”

  Aurora waddles to where Luke is piling pieces of meat onto a plate. He picks up a big chunk and Aurora leans down with her mouth open. Luke pushes it into her mouth and she sucks on his finger. “Mmm…Luke, what is that?” She wipes her mouth. “Mmm.” Aurora continues to chew.

  My eyes. My eyes…someone give me some bleach. What has been seen cannot be unseen. Gross. I scan the room for my dad. Shiat. He’s back in the living room watching a football game. How does he always miss the PDA-palooza?

  “Yea baby, you want some more?” Luke scoops up a disc of salami. The only thing preventing round two is Aurora is still chewing.

  “Well, it would be nice to see him again. Also, I would like to thank him for rescuing my daughter,” my mom says and pops a mozzarella ball into
her mouth.

  “Damsel in distress act? Lauren, that’s not your usual MO.” Luke shakes his head.

  “It’s not,” I say and sigh. If he were in pushing reach, I’d give him a hard shove.

  I need a drink. Megan must have opened some wine. There’s no way she’s dealing with Aurora all day and not sipping on a sanity saver. An uncorked bottle is sitting on the kitchen island. It’s the one Jack bought. That situation still needs to be rectified. I’m not comfortable with him buying my family’s groceries. I take out a twenty-ounce wine goblet from the cabinet. No four-ounce glasses for me. The red wine makes touchdown into the glass, followed by a two-point conversion because the large glass is like having two drinks in one. Score!

  Megan is at the back counter slicing onions on a clear cutting board. “Everybody out, I’m slicing the onions and I don’t want to hear complaints about your eyes this year.” Megan turns around with a sharp knife in her hand.

  My entire family darts out of the kitchen as if they feared for their lives. I can handle the onions. And I know the real reason for the evacuation, Megan wants alone time with me. This is her creative way of clearing the room without making anyone feel bad about our sisterly bond.

  “Nice work.” I hand her a glass of wine and we both clink the rims.

  “Works every time.” She laughs and takes a sip.

  I’m sure if Megan wasn’t such an amazing cook, people would be less likely to take orders from her, but her masterpiece meal preparations far succeed her bossy reputation.

  “Can you grab the butter from the counter for me? I’m running short on time. Aurora was extra helpy this year and the majority of her assistance had to be redone.”

  I slide the butter dish on the counter. “Hmm…do you think it’s because she might be pregnant?”

  “Might? Lauren, I’ve seen that baby move! I can’t imagine why they aren’t sharing the news. I’m sure it will come over dinner. It’s her way of outshining my meal. I just know it.” Megan tosses the sliced butter into a skillet and it sizzles all over the pan.