How To Bake The Perfect Pecan Pie. Gina Calanni

as lumpy as this mattress. I swear it’s been filled with tube socks and rusted old slinkies. If I didn’t know better I would think Brian my sister’s husband had convinced my parents to let him make me some crazy mattress contraption. In fact I didn’t make it home this summer for a visit, maybe he created some sort of Brianesque surprise for me in the form of his idea of an upgraded mattress. Arg. I’m almost too afraid to ask. But I suppose I don’t have to, Brian is not real shy about things and is always fishing for compliments on his most recent projects. I’ll wait it out.

      It’s the day before Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving Eve, and now I’ve been given the duty of preparing the family pecan pie. My grandmother’s judgment does beg the question why she chose to give the non-baker—the girl who avoids directions in the kitchen—the task of making the pecan pie. Is this a test? Or maybe it’s a true testament of her senility. Be positive, Lauren.

      I fold the letter back along its creases and stuff it into the envelope before placing it in my purse. That’s almost like holding it close to my heart, right? I toss my purse on the vanity. My parents haven’t changed anything in my room since I moved out. It’s almost like a time warp to my high school days.

      The mirror still has funny photos of my friends and me stuck into the crevice between the cherrywood and glass. The movie poster of Clueless is hanging on my wall. “As if” is printed across the top. The corners of my mouth pull up at the sides. I’m glad my mom has left my room the same. So many magical moments from my youth. This is the place where I’d decided to pluck my eyebrows for the first time and determined that electric blue wasn’t the best shadow for this green-eyed gal. My dad always says they are like shamrocks. I’m surprised they didn’t name me Patricia, especially since my birthday is in March.

      I make a surprised expression. No crow’s feet. Who needs Botox? I laugh at my reflection and see the vertical lines running close to my mouth. That’s normal, right? Everyone is supposed to have lines on their face, regardless of age, and I’m only twenty-six. I’m not that old. But am I aging well? My mother has great skin. Hopefully, I’ll take after her genes. Yet, the only way to improve upon this frumpy frau is with a long, hot shower.

      I grab my Lancôme toiletry bag. It’s filled with my shampoo, conditioner, and special bath wash—the one I keep on reserve over long family holiday weekends. It’s my top-shelf soap. I keep it separate from my other washes, sealed in a bag that reads, “For Emergency Use Only”. Understandably, it’s a well-deserved treat because my family is… I sigh, and with the lavender-colored bag on my arm, I make my way to the bathroom.

      Megan must still be sleeping or on the phone hammering out orders to her lackeys who are still at work. Ever since she received her promotion last October, her presence at family breakfasts has been missing. Including her preparation of heavenly food. She really goes all out. She is a quintessential foodie. On Saturday mornings you can find her perusing her local farmer’s market, though I get constant updates via her Instagram account about which of her herbs are “really coming into their own this year.” I do appreciate the various flavors at our morning meals, she uses ingredients I’ve never heard of like Herbs de Provence. When I’m at home in Maryland, it’s a banana and coffee or a bagel on the way into work for me. The most prepping in the kitchen I do in the mornings is turning on the coffee pot. I don’t even grind my own beans, I’m a Keurig pot kinda of gal. Though, my brother’s wife, Aurora, is always reminding me about how bad this is for the environment. To which I respond, I can’t be perfect at everything because then it wouldn’t be fair to the rest of the world. This typically doesn’t go over well, but at least the subject gets changed. I can only hear so much about plastic recycling and our children’s future. Aurora is a walking and talking “Reuse, Reduce and Recycle” sign. She ties used plastic in her hair and prior to the plastic bag stoppage in stores, she made clothes out of them. Yes, she knits clothes out of plastic bags. Except not anymore, since most places have gone for reusable bags. I swear I wasn’t sure how many different excuses I was going to be able to come up with for not wearing one of her handmade shirts. Last Christmas, she let out a few tears about how important it was for her to see her children’s aunts and uncles wearing her recycled gear, “because they would know their mom was important and respected.” Luke cornered me in the kitchen and insisted I put on the white and beige maxi dress she had created for me. My only saving grace was its length. It was way too short. It barely covered up my behind and my dad rescued me with his typical “No way is any daughter of mine wearing something that short.”

      “Oh hey, Lauren. How was your flight?” Brian asks as he comes out of Megan’s childhood room.

      Brian is an average-looking guy with short brown hair and a perpetual five o’clock shadow. He met my sister Megan at a bar, and surprisingly it wasn’t a one-night stand. They’ve been married for several years with a great relationship—the type of relationship where he feels as comfortable at my parents’ house as he does at his own. Wow, he’s wearing the shirt my mom gave him for Christmas last year. Every year she gives us something unusual to wear. Somehow the items she gives me end of getting stolen from baggage claim at the airport or oddly left at my home in Maryland. Brian’s shirt reads “Gobble Gobble…till the Farmer comes a hunting then Duck!” in brown threaded embroidery. Underneath the text is a turkey with a black pilgrim’s hat and a serving platter with a duck lying on it. The duck seems to be questioning its predicament on the platter and the turkey has one eyebrow raised. Oh, those silly turkeys. It is so difficult on Christmas morning to receive these outlandish presents from my mother. It’s like she is testing us each year to see if we will tell her how we really feel about these gifts.

      “Hi, Brian. It was good but delayed.” I roll my eyes.

      He reaches in for a bear hug. The kind of hug that makes one of the two people disappear. I vanish into his body. I try to simply pat his back as I scooch away from his embrace. Morning hugs en route to the bathroom are not my thing.

      “Are you taking a shower?”

      “Um, yes,” I say hesitantly.

      “Great. Let me know how you like the new showerhead. I just finished installing it last night. You’ll be the first to try it out.” Brian points to me as if I’ve won something wonderful. The kind of prize you think about from the moment you type your name and information into the website form, hoping you’re not signing up for endless amounts of spam.

      This isn’t a situation where I want to be the alpha user, or rather the first victim. Brian is historically known for coming to my parents’ house and “fixing” things up, when in reality he tweaks things to the point of my father finally caving and calling a professional repairperson.

      “Oh wow. Okay.” My lips form a flat line. I try to smile at him as I push past and open the bathroom door. I blow the hair out of my face and exhale through my clenched teeth.

      Despite the need to take a shower, this is now the last thing I want to do. Dread fills my mind. But, my hair, amongst other things, needs to be cleaned. There’s no turning back. I shut the bathroom door and hit my head against a rod that’s sticking out from the wall.

      “Ow.” I massage my temple.

      “Did you see the new towel rack? I made it in my garage,” Brian says through the door.

      There is an odd metal contraption hanging from my parents’ bathroom wall. No way I’m using that thing. I drop my towel in a safe place—the toilet.

      “Yes, um, that’s neat.”

      I wish I were Supergirl and could burn through the metal object that is the source of my pain. I imagine melting the steel into something that could easily be used as a weapon. This is going to be a long weekend.

      In the mirror, there is a red bump to the left side of my head. I grimace and bite my tongue to refrain from sticking it out. Someone with more holiday cheer is going to emerge after this cleansing.

      Knock. Knock. Knock. “Hey Lauren, remember you are not on one of your spa trips with friends, okay? Other people have to shower as well, so try and keep it brief,” Megan says through the door to me.