How To Bake The Perfect Pecan Pie. Gina Calanni

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.

      I pull out my phone and type “Caldwell” into the map program. Two hours and five minutes. It’s almost eleven o’clock. I do need to get a move on.

      Aurora saunters into the kitchen. “Namaste, Lauren.” She does some sort of yoga/bowing movement. Her auburn braided bun wobbles a bit when she stands still. Has she ever even attended a yoga class? Her ankle bracelets jingle as she walks over to the stove. She puts several blueberry muffins on her plate and a large helping of my mom’s scrambled eggs. At least somebody likes them. They have always been a little too dry for my taste, but hey to each their own.

      “Hi, Aurora. Where are my niece and nephew?” I ask, noticing a movement from her tummy. The movement was clear and not anything to be confused with stomach flexing. No, this motion that occurred underneath Aurora’s shirt was most likely from a baby. Is Aurora pregnant?

      “Winter and River are in the back, playing. Brian made them a tree house.” Aurora rubs her stomach and sets her plate down on the table across from my mom.

      “Ahem.” Aurora closes her jade green eyes and raises up her open palms to the ceiling, takes in a deep breath, and then wiggles her fingers through the air as she lowers them to the table. She opens up her eyes as if she just experienced something amazing and nods.

      Besides the wiggling of Aurora’s fingers, I know I saw something move in her stomach, but I’m not going there. No way. If Luke and Aurora have some baby news, I’ll wait for them to share. I snag another muffin from the yellow plastic basket and take a bite. Delicious. My mom makes the fluffiest muffins. I normally don’t like eating past the top, because that’s the best part of most muffins, but with my mom’s, I always go all in and finish the entire thing.

      “Hey oh, look who it is, my favorite running buddy…I mean walking pal.” Luke darts towards me. He is soaking wet from sweat no less. His race bib is still pinned to his shirt and he’s wearing a tank top which means if he tries to hug me, I’m going to encounter his sticky, stinky, armpits. Yuck. I raise my right hand to him as if he would be willing to high five instead of a full on hug. He bypasses my hand and reaches for me. I am immediately soaked in his sweat and body odor. My face is directly parallel to his pits. I gag. I scrunch my nose and squeeze him back quickly hoping he will make it a short embrace. We don’t need to continue on with this wetness and I have already had a shower.

      He releases me. “I missed you out there today, Lauren. I think the timers did too.” He laughs and grabs a mug down from the cupboard.

      “Hey babe, make sure you get enough to eat.” He turns and faces Aurora. “You know what I’m talking about.” He walks over and kisses her. Not a peck or even a smooch. But a full on French kiss. An open mouth, lots of tongue and smacking sounds. My mom crinkles her eyebrows and focuses on her puzzle. I do not understand why they feel the need to do this in front of us. And yet, it seems as if they only do this when my dad isn’t present. I would seriously pay money for them to do this PDA ridiculousness in front of my father. I can’t even imagine how he would react. Which is why I would pay good money to see it and also, hopefully however he would react would be enough for the PDA-palooza to stop.

      Aurora moans. “Oh Luke.”

      My eyes cannot be pushed out of my head farther without falling out. I’m not even watching but the noises. Good grief, get a room!

      “Seriously Luke, nobody wants to see that.” Megan steps into the room with her Thanksgiving binder. She has each year’s previous menu sectioned off. I bet she has all of