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How To Bake The Perfect Pecan Pie
Gina Calanni
A warm pie. A tasty guy. Happy Thanksgiving indeed.Lauren Hauser is home for the holidays, and she’s been given a challenge: preparing her grandmother’s pecan pie. The problem? Lauren’s not famed for her baking skills. In fact, while her sister would win Star Baker every week, and her mom at least knows a sieve from a spatula, Lauren’s bakes have always been more dangerous than delicious!Still, no Thanksgiving would be complete without dessert…which is why Lauren finds herself searching for pecans on Thanksgiving Eve. Stumbling into a gorgeous stranger laden down with bags of pecans seems like a holiday miracle…but despite Jack’s kissable lips he’s frostier than a snow cone…and out of sight before she can say �Macy’s Parade’!As the clock counts down to Thanksgiving dinner, Lauren is running out of time. And without her grandmother’s perfect pecan pie it won’t be a very Happy Thanksgiving! What Lauren needs is a knight in shining armour. And it might just be that the magic of Thanksgiving will find her one after all…Home for the Holidays series:Book 1 - How to Bake the Perfect Pecan PieBook 2 - How to Bake the Perfect Christmas CakeBook 3 - Coming just in time for the 4th of JulyPraise for How to Bake the Perfect Pecan Pie:�There is something so charming and effervescent about the writing and Henning’s way with dramatic romantic moments.’ – Kirkus Reviews�The kind of ideal, cosy read to escape into and put a little smile on your face for an hour or two!’ – Sophie (Top 1000 Reviewer)�A delightful, light hearted story to escape in with unexpected snow storms, a puncture, pecan hoarder (Jack) and lots of other things along the way!’ – Splashes Into Books
A warm pie. A tasty guy. Happy Thanksgiving indeed.
Lauren Hauser is home for the holidays, and she’s been given a challenge: preparing her grandmother’s pecan pie. The problem? Lauren’s not famed for her baking skills. In fact, while her sister would win Star Baker every week, and her mom at least knows a sieve from a spatula, Lauren’s bakes have always been more dangerous than delicious!
Still, no Thanksgiving would be complete without dessert…which is why Lauren finds herself searching for pecans on Thanksgiving Eve. Stumbling into a gorgeous stranger laden down with bags of pecans seems like a holiday miracle…but despite Jack’s kissable lips he’s frostier than a snow cone…and out of sight before she can say �Macy’s Parade’!
As the clock counts down to Thanksgiving dinner, Lauren is running out of time. And without her grandmother’s perfect pecan pie it won’t be a very Happy Thanksgiving! What Lauren needs is a knight in shining armour. And it might just be that the magic of Thanksgiving will find her one after all…
Also by Gina Calanni (#ulink_255cdb65-a145-5149-912e-78bf41074ff5):
Home for the Holidays
How to Bake the Perfect Pecan PieHow to Bake the Perfect Christmas CakeHow to Bake the Perfect Apple PieHow to Bake the Perfect Wedding Cake
Ice Cream Dreams
Dream Come TrueDream A Little Dream
How to Bake the Perfect Pecan Pie
Gina Calanni
Copyright (#ulink_d6daf126-c174-5475-9dbf-7eda9b5ec19b)
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014
Copyright В© Gina Calanni 2014
Gina Calanni asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition В© June 2014 ISBN: 9781474020251
Version date: 2018-06-20
GINA CALANNI
currently resides where bluebonnets line the highways in the spring, but she prefers the rock flower anemone from under the sea. Above the ocean’s surface Gina likes to bake with her three boys and run like the ground is crumbling beneath her feet while being dragged along by her pooch, Schatzi, Music is the backbone of each one of Gina’s books and her favourite button to press is repeat. At the end of the day Gina’s glass of wine is always half full.
You can follow Gina on Twitter at @Gina_Calanni Instagram: @gina_calanni
Check out www.ginacalanni.com (http://www.ginacalanni.com) to keep up to date with the latest scoop in her life.
To my boys, Ethan, Beck, and Jude – your happiness is my joy.
To my mom – thank you for always standing by my side and cheering me on, for the countless conversations and knowing that I always had to hang up first, even though I didn’t want to.
To my friends and familia – thank you for taking me seriously and being supportive through my journey to publication.
To my pooch Schatzi, thanks for being at my feet during those late nights and really getting me.
To Kierney Scott – who I’ve been Going Pecans for since July 14
of our special year. You are my favorite pumpkin spice author of all time, writing with you was a surreal experience, but it doesn’t even come close to the friendship that we have. You are my life partner (NL) and for that I am eternally grateful.
Contents
Cover (#u98473bac-24cc-5de9-841e-079eb3ef2301)
Blurb (#u6f545bc8-914c-5e6a-bd25-c3f2f5250d58)
Book List (#ulink_8d18cfc0-4b03-55c1-8434-8e4b806051ba)
Title Page (#u82fa9639-36c2-596c-9797-841e9a304a6e)
Copyright (#u24bbf836-73be-5068-a874-adc97f3e218c)
Author Bio (#ud99049ec-f597-5141-b9f2-4382092bcc61)
Acknowledgements (#ue010c6b1-de4a-5b2f-8bf7-cbcd321d6449)
Dedication (#u2fb172c1-01fe-53d4-a1cb-cd45ecded207)
Chapter One (#ulink_e87c4a49-8b54-551e-819e-17ce415bae6c)
Chapter Two (#ulink_8de88bd5-b74d-5e53-a1a2-520788ae565d)
Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_248b3171-d21f-5b6a-af54-5d9ee92761f0)
Dear Lauren,
As you know, I am no longer capable of certain things. Despite this, the Hauser Family Pecan Pie must be made. Thanksgiving will not be able to exist without it. Perhaps that is a bit harsh, or dramatic, if you will. However, it is very important that certain traditions continue long after I am gone. The Hauser Family Pecan Pie is one of them. The instructions for this masterpiece have been handed down for many years. Actually, scratch that—this is the first time the recipe will leave my possession since I created it. Nonetheless, this magical formula is one of our family jewels, so you must guard it with your life. This is not dramatic as the recipe does hold value.
Now, Lauren, I have many granddaughters and even living daughters, but I have chosen to bequeath my secret to you. Because, as we both know, you are my favorite. But for heaven’s sake, please do not share this with your sister Megan or any of your female cousins. Actually, don’t tell anyone. This information you can confide to your husband only. Speaking of which, you aren’t getting any younger, dear. Well, now I won’t go on about that situation in this very important letter.
Finally, Lauren, below is the recipe. Please, dear, hold it close to your heart and remember to follow it to a “T”, or rather to a “P” as in “Pecan Pie”.
The Hauser Family Pecan Pie Recipe
Ingredients:
1 cup light brown sugar
Вј cup white sugar
ВЅ cup butter
2 eggs
1 tablespoon all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
10 ounces chopped pecans from Tibor’s Pecan Farm
1 tablespoon molasses
ВЅ teaspoon of salt
Directions:
1 Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C).
2 In a large bowl, beat eggs until foamy, and stir in melted butter. Stir in the brown sugar, white sugar, and the flour; mix well. Last add the milk, vanilla, molasses, salt, and pecans.
3 Pour into an unbaked 9-inch pie shell. Bake in preheated oven for 10 minutes at 400 degrees, then reduce temperature to 350 degrees and bake for 30 to 40 minutes, or until done.
Flaky Pastry Pie Crust Recipe
Ingredients:
1 Вј cups all-purpose flour
Вј teaspoon salt
ВЅ cup butter, chilled and diced
Вј cup ice water
Directions:
1 Combine the flour and salt in a large bowl.
2 Cut in the butter until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs.
3 Stir in the ice water, a tablespoon at a time, until the crust mixture forms a ball.
4 Wrap dough in plastic wrap and refrigerate for 4 hours or overnight.
5 Sprinkle flour onto rolling surface. Roll dough out.
6 Place crust in pie plate, pressing evenly into the bottom and sides.
Pecans must come from Tibor’s Pecan Farm. The pecans have always come from this place, so that is the way it must stay. Some day you should ask how to grow a pecan tree in your own yard using one of their seedlings. That is, of course, another situation.
Lauren, do not deviate from the recipe at all or the pie will be ruined as well as Thanksgiving. No, this is not your grandmother being dramatic. This is an actual truth.
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.
Lauren, I am counting on you, as is the rest of the family. I know you will succeed. You always have.
With warm thoughts and a cheer, Happy Thanksgiving Dear!
~Grandmother
I gaze at the letter. Of course I’ll add it to the collections of notes I’ve received over the years. The crisp, white paper has a thin, gold border, and at the top is my grandmother’s monogram: SLH—Sandra Lauren Hauser (I’m her namesake). I trace my fingers over the SLH. I ought to order my own stationery. Then again, who would I need to write a letter to?
With the letter in my clammy hand, my heart begins to palpitate. Little beads of sweat form along my hairline. The family pecan pie? Oh, Grandmother. I set the moist paper on the bed and sigh. I grab my comforter. It’s soft and fluffy. I want to pull the covers up over my head.
I’m not much of a cook, let alone a baker. Doesn’t she remember the catastrophes I used to create as a child? Bread that didn’t rise, muffins that were hard as rocks, and—everyone’s favorite—my flat, greasy chocolate chip cookies. Why would she give this to me? Surely, Megan would have been the smarter choice. Following directions and making the family proud is more of her thing.
Megan is my happily married sister, who is a fantastic chef and fits this role perfectly, whereas I’m the single and purportedly unreliable sister. Megan has a signed cookbook from almost every one of the Food Network celebrity chefs. She could probably open her own restaurant and be one of the ten percent of restaurateurs that doesn’t fail. Basically, Megan strives for success and whatever Megan wants, she gets.
My mom gave me the letter last night when we got home from the airport. I was exhausted from the long day of traveling. As usual, my flight had been delayed. After we unloaded my suitcase, I kissed my mother and went straight to bed without even a glimpse of the letter. My grandmother has given me many notes over the years. I knew last night that whatever was in this one could wait until I had a good night’s rest. Then again, it might have been better to read at night.
I grab my phone from the nightstand and press the home button. Small, white text flashes 8:02 a.m. Ugh. Wine time—if only that “a” was the letter “p”. Shiat, I wish I’d set my alarm. I hate oversleeping, especially with the time difference. I’m sure my mom thinks I’m being lazy, not conquering the day and all of the other cliché thoughts about early risers. My brother Luke is most likely doing his annual 10k Turkey Trot run and here I am still in bed. Luke is a major athlete. He has completed the Iron Man more times than I can remember and finished one too many marathons. I tried running the 10k Turkey Trot with him one year but ended up lost in the swarm of jogging strollers. Tons of fit moms and dads were cruising around me like I was an old lady and I was probably younger than most of them by several years and not pushing fifty pounds of kid and caboodle. By the time I had made it to what I had assumed was the finish line, it was only actually the 5k marker. I pretended to be with the 5k group and placed quite well. I was rather proud of myself. I’ve never placed in a race ever. Luke did not let me enjoy my prideful moment and reminded me of the fact that the 5k race starts ten minutes after the 10k race so I had actually gotten a ten minute head start on the real 5k racers. I wanted to keep this a secret and bask in my fast time but he would not allow it. He practically dragged me up to the scoring station and made me turn in my race bib. That was our last race together.
I flatten the sand dune formations in between my eyebrows. Even without a mirror I know a pout is pushing out my lips. There will be no grumpiness today. No, today will be filled with all things positive. Just like this letter. Obviously my grandmother was being positive when she wrote it. Because what other motive could she have had other than faith I’d succeed in making the perfect pie?
I force myself out of bed. The springs creak as the weight of my body lifts off the mattress. My feet sink into the plush, pink rug. This bed is so loud.
I stand up and stretch. My back and neck protest as I try to reach my toes. Might need to ask my mom to pop my back before a vertebrate situation ensues. Being home for Thanksgiving is always filled with tasty food, but the backaches, I’m not sure if they really even each other out. Ha! Even out, my back needs to be evened out, it’s 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.
I roll my eyes. She is so demanding and accusatory, how does she know if I take spa vacays with my friends? Well, I mean I guess I did tell her about my trip to Sedona with my friend Brianna over the summer. Ah, I wish I was there now listening to the waterfalls in the backdrop as some hunky guy from Europe massaged all the worries out of my bare back. I shrug my shoulders.
“Happy to hear your voice, Megs!” She hates it when I call her that. “I’ll be sure and be extra quick for my favorite sister Meggy-poo.” I laugh. I’m sure she’s flicking me off through the door. But out of sight out of mind.
I run my fingers through my hair and take a deep breath. The new showerhead is large and shiny—an improvement over the rusted one. It’s trying to woo me into turning it on, promising me a squeaky-clean showering experience. I sigh and turn the faucet’s knob, sliding the red dial all the way to hot. I need some steam.
A surge of water flows from the showerhead. I lean back and soak my hair. Could this be an actual improvement thanks to Brian?
I grab my fruit-scented gel and pour an ample amount on my washcloth. I scrub the travel grime from my body. The tub is filled with steam and bubbles swim over my toes.
My commute was around five hours, including the layover in Atlanta. Unfortunately, there isn’t a direct flight from Baltimore to Austin. My parents live outside of Austin—what some might call the suburbs. It’s where I learned to drive, except my parents have a newer home—not one built in the seventies. It was built a decade later. Since my mom and dad never got into the renovation craze, the majority of the house still reflects that time period accurately. There’s lots of gold trim in the bathrooms and green marble. The walls are mostly pastel. My room has a dainty floral print that’s plastered on tight. I tried to take a piece of it down during high school, but was unsuccessful and ended up being grounded for a month.
After college, I luckily scored a job at a credit card company. I usually keep my job a secret and say I work in finance. A casual conversation can go into Mach 5 mode of anger if I mention that I work for a credit card firm. It’s almost as if I said I was an assistant to the devil himself. A few years ago, I would get on my pedestal and defend my employer and their practices, but now I keep it all on the down low.
Speaking of low, the water pressure went from a nice blast to a dribble right in the middle of shampooing. I still have to make it to the conditioning part of this routine. The suds are crinkling in my hair. Maybe if I turn off the faucet, I can trick it into restarting the blast I enjoyed earlier. Turning the knob over to the right again changes nothing. It’s almost as if my parents hadn’t paid their water bill.
That couldn’t possibly be the case. A blast of cold water shoots into my left eye. I wasn’t hoping for a Niagara Falls experience, but the surge will get the suds out. With as much effort as I can muster, I begin to rinse my hair of the shampoo. I try to run my fingers through my hair, but with no conditioner, they barely make it to the nape of my neck. I mush the back of my wet locks together, not a bubble sound to be found. Great. I turn off the knob, hoping to conserve a little water until it’s time to rinse. I plop a huge amount of conditioner into my hand and begin massaging from the bottom all the way to my scalp. Goosebumps have sprouted all over my body as if I’ve seen a ghost. Most likely the water ghost, as the real deal seems to be gone.
There’s no way I could have gone without my conditioner. It’s one thing to deal with the humidity, but humidity combined without conditioner is like going outside without pants—a definite no for this gal. Even in late November, humidity is ever-present in Central Texas.
I scrape my fingers from my scalp, down to the ends of my hair. Yes, conditioning is complete. Here we go again. I turn the faucet on and cross my fingers, praying for hot.
The water is still cold and no longer blasting, but rather shooting out drops of water at a time. The heavens are not on my side this morning. I glare at the faucet, wanting to rip it from the wall. But I know that wouldn’t go over well and I’d find myself sitting at our dining room table for a family meeting.
I sigh and take a deep breath. I turn the knob off again and count to five, hoping my computer restart method will work for Brian’s idea of an improved showering experience.
Showtime. I turn it back on. I’m blasted by hot water. This will do. I make a one hundred and eighty degree turn and rinse the suds from my hair. The creaminess from the conditioner is gone and the water at my feet is clear. That’s it. Bath time is over. I turn the knob all the way to off, thankful I’m clean and can exit this unenjoyable experience.
Talking to my mom about the showerhead situation is a debate I’m not ready to dive into. Especially, not since Brian is wearing the shirt she gave him. I’ve got at least twenty-four hours before I’ll need to use it again. I grab my towel from the toilet. The warm, fuzzy terry cloth is soft on my skin and smells of home. This makes me smile. I wrap it around my head and put on my bathrobe. I’m the epitome of a classic fresh and clean commercial with a makeshift turban wrapped around my head.
Back in my room, I gently tap my phone’s screen to pull up my favorite weather app. Weather.com shows a big sun with black sunglasses (as if the sun would need to wear sunglasses? I guess they didn’t think that one through) smiling with the text 74 degrees written across it. Fantastic. This isn’t the type of temperature I’d have in Baltimore. An added bonus to visiting my parents over the holidays—having nice weather. I pull out a short-sleeved, white blouse and unroll a flared, red skirt. I am an expert packer. I read this article in Cosmo or something about traveling and how rolling your clothes instead of folding avoids wrinkles and it was right. This is a major perk for me, because I am not an ironer. I ruined my favorite Express white buttoned down shirt in high school while pressing it and to this day I have yet to pick up another iron. I am now anti-iron. My dad is a huge fan of ironing. Whenever I am home for a visit, I get the pleasure of extra pressed clothing thanks to him. In my shoe bag, I drag out a pair of matching red, strappy sandals. I heart these shoes so much. Brianna and I had both eyed them while shopping and lucky me, they only had my size. Brianna is incredibly tall and has the shoe size to match. While I am not so tall. I refuse to use the title of “short” or vertically challenged, I’ll pass on that one too.
Starvation tugs on my stomach. Of course, I’m not a poster child for malnutrition, but I should’ve taken my mom up on food last night. I’d just wanted to go to bed. Now I’m woozy and weak. Is it possible to pass out from being extremely hungry in the morning? Hopefully, I’ll never have to find out. I bet my mom has whipped up a batch of palatable food for me. As I know Megan has yet to shower, which means she won’t be coming downstairs until she has primped properly.
I mosey down the creaky maple wood stairs. Pictures line the hunter green papered walls along the way. Images of Megan, Luke, and me are in various frames of all shapes and sizes. Some of the photos are undeniably cute while others are awkward and staged—the kind of photos you’d see on funny cards at Target. Despite this, my mother chose to keep them up. My favorite photo is black and white of my family at Bush Gardens; we all dressed up in pioneer attire and posed properly. Luke and my dad have shotguns, Megan and my mom have wooden spoons and I opted for a doll. I was only five in the photo, which makes the doll seem legit.
Would she notice if I replaced the photos with different ones? This might be a challenge for when I return at Christmas. Better yet, I could see if I could restage the photos with newer ones of us. That would be pretty funny. Especially our acrobat impression. Megan and I had hung upside down from a tree while holding Luke’s feet steady for his one-armed headstand. We were practicing for our Cirque du Soleil auditions. Of course we were only kids pretending, but it sure seemed real. Eventually we gave up on that idea and moved on to other areas of expertise. Like for instance, I’m great at walking down stairs without falling. I nod as my foot misses the last step, almost as if I planned it. Except I didn’t. This is probably a side effect from lack of food.
Mmm…blueberries. Yay, my mom must have made her famous blueberry muffins. They are from a box and the blueberries are in a can. However, they are incredibly scrumptious. I’ve had my share of blueberry muffins at fancy bakeries all up and down the east coast but there is something different in my mom’s version. I’ve never been able to place it. Maybe, it’s because she made them. The stairs lead into the kitchen. It has a light oak corner table with a bay window that my mom added some cushions to for extra seating. The windows are lined with a French chef scene. It’s not the standard chubby French Chef you would see at local retailer’s mass market produced. Instead it features a mime French chef with a beret dancing in the kitchen, he is dressed in white and black horizontal striped bow neck long-sleeved shirt with black tight pants, a red scarf is around his neck and he has a connoisseur mustache. At the stove is a glamourous female chef almost a cross between Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s with Nigella Lawson’s body. She is wearing a pink frock topped off with a string of pearls around her neck and is stirring a big pot of red sauce. Crimson text along the print of the white fabric reads “Toujours Cuisinez Avec Du Vin”, repeated throughout and it is framed by a crimson satin hem. The window treatment has varied over the years. Yet, my mom changes out the cushions with the season or theme. Today they are turkeys dancing with cornucopias on their heads. The pillows’ background has small writing that reads, “Do the Gobble Wobble.” Musical notes are dispersed throughout. Eating at the table is almost like being in a diner booth, with its closed-in, festive atmosphere.
My mom is in her spot—the only actual chair for the table. She’s wearing her fuzzy blue robe with white clouds scattered across it. Her salt-and-pepper, wavy hair is parted to the side, held in place by two cow-face bobby pins. She’s drinking coffee out of her The Price is Right mug. She swears she made it on the show. I have searched the internet high and low and have never been able to find any evidence to prove this. Her Sudoku puzzle is spread out on the table. The lady loves her Sudoku and crossword puzzles. She has a bookcase in the office full of completed crossword puzzles. Last year my dad bought her a new bookcase for her Sudoku books. It already has two complete shelves. Ever since Bob Barker left The Price is Right she has quit watching.
“Hi, honey. Did you sleep well?” Her eyes remain focused on her puzzle.
“Pretty good.” I rub my back, wishing that were true.
I’ve slept better, a lot better. The bed has the same mattress from my elementary days. That was at least fifteen years ago. The mattress definitely needs to be replaced, but I don’t think it’s a top concern for my parents. Especially since I’m the only one who ever sleeps on it. Although, I’m still not convinced of any possible Brian upgrading attempts.
Maybe after my wedding they’ll get a queen-size bed with a new mattress. At least it’s what they did when both my brother, Luke, and sister, Megan, got married. A brand-new bed at my parents’ house as a wedding gift seems lame. I guess if I was getting married that would be the least of my concerns. I haven’t even had a serious boyfriend since Scott. I roll my eyes. What a waste of two years. I know hindsight is twenty-twenty, but you would think I was completely blind the entire time I was in a relationship with him. Of course it was a long-distance relationship and every time we reunited it seemed like we were a part of the theory of absence makes the heart grow fonder but in reality we really weren’t. I think the idea of a relationship was what I wanted but I wasn’t thinking clearly about the “who” factor. A warm body does not equate to a good mate. During an extended weekend get together I took an extra day off of work to make it a four-day holiday instead of three, and I realized how much I really did not care for Scott. I don’t think it mattered to him. Which was even more proving of the fact, we didn’t belong together and thus I ended it. This was almost a year ago.
My dating life in Maryland has been non-existent. For one, I put in a lot of overtime at work. And two, it seems as if I’m only ever really aware of my single status when Brianna is dating someone and then I’m all alone sitting on my grey couch watching The Vampire Diaries on repeat. I imagine I’m back in high school and having to deal with two guys wanting to be with me. It’s always such a difficult choice to decide between Damon and Stefan, I usually end up choosing both. Ha!
I reach for a mug from the cabinet. It’s my favorite cup to use when I’m home. I bought it for my mom at a garage sale a few summers ago. It reads “I’m Going Pecans” and has a woman sprawled across a pile of pecans, looking as if she has given up. I have yet to see my mom ever use it. On the counter rests the ancient coffee machine. My parents have had the same coffee machine for as long as I can remember. Though, it seems like I’m consistently having to replace my own. My dad would point out this is because “they don’t make things the way they used to anymore. Nope, it’s all a scheme to keep you buying more. More crap, I’ll say.” I try not to give him any type of electrical gear for presents, I would not want to hear about how it broke after x amount of times of using it. Nope, I stick to clothing for him.
Where will the liquid sitting in the clear carafe fall on the coffee scale? My mom makes the weakest pot of coffee on earth, except for one of my friends from college who actually reused the grounds. Who does that? I like a strong, freshly ground brew with real cream.
I pour the brown imposter into my mug and sprinkle in some non-dairy powder flakes. The flakes sit on top of the liquid staring back at me. I can almost imagine them laughing at me. The little flecks of white remind me of fish food. Just like fish food it would take a while for them to sink. I grab a spoon from the drawer and stir. Might as well make a like a fish and enjoy it, I definitely need the caffeine. I take a sip. Yup, I’m home.
“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.
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 her current recipes color-coded and exact times listed in the margins of when to do what.
“Hey now, just cause me and my little flower petal still have the love after all these years, doesn’t mean you have to be jealous.” Luke kisses Aurora once more on the lips but it’s actually a peck.
“Yea, that’s it Luke…I’m jealous.” Megan air quotes.
“Hey, all I’m saying is we’ve still got the love, still got the love we made,” he sings.
I laugh. “Luke, I never took you for a Reba McEntire fan.”
Luke takes the carafe from the holder. “Lauren, you would be surprised what you might like if you open your mind…maybe even find yourself a guy.” He twirls the liquid into his cup as if he is a barista at Starbucks. “Isn’t that right, babe?” He glances back at Aurora.
Aurora nods her head. “That’s right baby, you just have to open your mind to see all the things your mind was meant to see.” She rubs her lips together. I’m not sure if this is a cue for another make-out session either way, I need to exit this room.
I take a swig of my coffee and head for the door. “I should go say hi to Winter and River, before I leave.” I turn the knob, hoping for a quick exit.
“Where are you going?” Aurora stuffs the rest of the second muffin into her mouth.
Darn…almost made it. “I have some Thanksgiving errands to run—a few things to pick up at the store. That’s all,” I say, trying to be vague. I’d normally ask if anyone else needs or wants me to pick something up for them. But Aurora never needs anything simple. It’s always some rare health food find, and I already have to make two stops before the stores close.
“Would you mind picking up some loose decaffeinated oolong tea for me?” Aurora rubs her tummy and picks up her fork to plow more food into her mouth. Luke eyes her stomach as if he wants to rub it as well.
“Mom, where’s the bacon, my little flower petal needs to fill up.” Luke raises his cup in the air.
“Oh honey, it’s all gone. We’ll make sure to have extra for tomorrow’s breakfast.” My mom picks up her pencil and crosses off a note on the side of her game.
“Um, let me look at my list as well.” Megan checks her binder. “Oh I see here on my grocery list, I’ve already bought everything. I guess that’s what happens when you plan things properly.” She shrugs her shoulders and flashes her teeth at me in her quasi-business-to-customer-speak-smile.
“Well, I just found out last night I was making the pie.” I cock my head at Megan.
“Oh, poor Worwen just found out about the peecahn piiie,” Megan says in her fakest baby-talk voice.
“Megs, you know green is not a good color on you.” I wink at her.
Megan laughs. “You’re right and I’m actually glad that you are taking part in the meal this year.” She pulls me in for a side hug and kisses my head. Jasmine, cucumber, and roses invade my nose. Poppy, her favorite perfume. I squeeze her back. Having her acceptance and support means a lot.
I glance back at Aurora. Obviously, I can’t say no to a possibly pregnant woman. “Could you just write down what you need? I don’t want to forget.”
My dad walks into the kitchen wearing a big smile, a navy polo shirt and khaki shorts. “Hey, it’s the bird, come give me kiss.” He motions me toward him. I smooch his cheek and we hug, the kind of hug I really like. My favorite kind of hug, one from my dad. He has just the right amount of embrace, its firm but not too crushing.
“So, Grandmother wants me to make the pecan pie this year.” My mouth opens into a wide grin. I am quite proud that she has requested this task of me. Pecan pie is a big deal for Thanksgiving in most American houses, but for mine it is the crème de le crème of Thanksgiving. If the pecan pie didn’t happen it would be like Thanksgiving was a trial run and we would have to redo the entire dinner again. Which wouldn’t be the worst thing, I’m sure everyone would appreciate eating the rest of the meal a second time. But regardless, if I mess up the pie, it will not go over well. I can’t say I’m not nervous about it. I’ve never made a pie in my life. The last time I baked something, or rather the last time I tried to bake something, was in Home Economics and it turned out awful. My teacher said she could smell the incorrect substitution of baking powder for baking soda. She went into great detail about her trained nose. I’m not sure if this is even conceivable, but I have not forgotten the hard muffins I pulled out of the oven and had to toss in the trash. “No birds would eat those Lauren, you could kill them.” I shake my head. Is it possible for a baking soda/powder change to actually kill something?
“Well, then you better get on it, you know the stores close early today. Which reminds me, I’ve got to run to Golfsmith. I’m getting low on balls.” My dad leans in and kisses my mom on the lips. After thirty years of marriage, they are still as affectionate as ever. I appreciate that they love each other and all, but seeing more PDA, is not exactly something I look forward to on my visits home. However, my parents keep theirs to pecks vs make-out sessions like Luke and Aurora. I can’t imagine kissing a guy in front of my family.
“Oh, yeah I remember Luke mentioning something about your swing being off the last time we were here.” Aurora shovels a ton of eggs into her mouth. All eyes were on her, not a good idea to mention my dad’s swing being off. Yikes. I’m not going to stick around to see how that plays out. I take that as my cue and exit quickly.
I run outside. Darn. I want to see Winter and River before I leave for the store. Hopefully the tension in the kitchen will have cleared by the time I have to pass through again and possibly I can avoid any other items Aurora or the maybe-baby might need.
“Aunt Lauren!” Winter and River scream and run toward me. They’re playing near the tree that Brian has used to build their tree house. The sight isn’t pretty. There are all different-sized wood planks, some with jagged edges. Some of them appear to have been sanded down. Yet, there isn’t a similar-sized piece of wood in the bunch. Did he even use any building plans or simply cut up some wood and begin nailing? Hopefully my mother will say something regarding the safety of this thing. Surely, she knows that monstrosity will only come crashing to the ground once anything heavier than a toothpick is placed on it. The sharp edges impaling— No, I don’t even want that visual.
“Hi, Winter. Hi, River. How are you?” I squeeze their small little bodies tight. Winter is almost a mini-version of Aurora except the eyes, she has Luke’s chocolate eyes and River is an exact replica of Luke, same dark curly brown hair with matching eyes. They couldn’t possibly be any cuter. Luke and Aurora definitely make great looking kids.
“We’re good. Can you play with us?” Winter’s auburn buns wobble just above her ears. I guess it’s mother-daughter buns this year.
“Oh, I wish I could, but… You’re it!” I tag her and take off running in the opposite direction. My heels aren’t the best for running in grass, but I’ve already committed to this game. I can’t disappoint those darling little faces. I try and run on my toes to avoid getting stuck in the grass.
She squeals with delight and chases after me, forgetting River is an easy target. He seems to wobble back and forth in place not quite sure what do to. He’s only three. Figuring out how tag works is still something new to him. Winter on the other hand is an expert at the wise old age of five and she seems to be gaining on me. We race several circles around the yard, and then she eyes River and moves in on her prey.
“Tag. You’re it!” she yells at River, almost knocking him over.
He glances up and races toward me. I pretend to rush in the opposite direction and fall in the yard. He tackles me, and I’m squashed to the ground. I’m thankful my parents did not run their sprinkler today. The ground is dry.
“Tag. You’re it!” he yells with so much excitement that he spits a bit on my cheeks.
I wipe the saliva off my face and stand up. “Okay. To be continued.” As much as I would love playing tag all day, I’ve got to get the pie made. I brush the grass from my skirt and wipe my shoes off on the doormat. It’s my dad’s favorite football team. His friend Buddy gave it to him for Christmas last year and said “now you can walk all over the boys, just like everybody else.” I’m surprised my dad is using it. However, I wouldn’t be surprised if my dad hasn’t given Buddy a similar gift for his rival team. When I make it back to the kitchen door, Aurora is drinking coffee. Isn’t that a pregnancy no-no?
Aurora rubs her belly and gives me her list. Tea is not the only item. Time is of the essence, so I decide not to argue over the additional items. I take the list as I make my famous closed-mouth smile.
I go upstairs, give myself the once over in the mirror, eye make-up is great, but perhaps a dab more of gloss. I swipe the brush of my Cranberry Heaven across my lips and toss the tube back in my purse. I swing the straps over my shoulder and turn the knob. I close the door to my room, I don’t want the young detective duo of Winter and River to rummage through my things in search of dress-up clothes. I take two steps in the hallway. Megan’s voice is coming through her bedroom door, it almost sounds like she is in an argument.
“I just don’t want her to mess up the pie.”
“You have to give her a little faith.”
“Brian, you have no idea, what you are talking about. Lauren is not a baker. The pecan pie is a big deal. Everyone will be really upset, especially Grandmother and I don’t want her to have her feelings hurt. You know Grandmother isn’t doing well and she probably gave the letter to Lauren by accident.”
“Megan…you know the letter was written to Lauren, give her a chance, she might surprise you.”
“Maybe, but I think it’s best if I take out an insurance policy for her.”
“What are you saying?”
“Maybe, I’ll make a pie and hide it in case hers doesn’t turn out.”
“That’s a bad idea.” Brian opens the door to Megan’s room.
My eyes are about to pop out of my head. I take in a deep breath.
“Oh, hey Lauren…uh…”
I shake my head. “It’s okay, I’d feel the same way if I was her.” I suck the insides of my cheeks in. I’m not going to cry. Not over pecan pie. I rush past the door and charge down the stairs as fast as I can without falling. I hustle to the door. A car. I need a vehicle.
“Mom, can I borrow your car?” I wipe a lone tear from my lash. It’s not really crying if it’s only one.
“Sure, honey. The keys are in my purse, you better hurry, remember what your dad said, the stores close early today,” she yells back at me from the kitchen.
As I grab the keys from her turkey beaded purse, I push the home button on my phone. Yikes. It’s almost noon. I do not need any more setbacks. A tear drops from my other lash. I will not cry over pecan pie. Ha!That rhymes. I hop into my mom’s car and inhale. She always has a flavorful car scent, I check out the dangling piece of cardboard shaped like a pie hanging from her rearview mirror, pecan. I take a deep breath and put the car in reverse. My map program searches for the address as I back the car out of the driveway on the hunt for the best pecans in Texas.
Chapter Two (#ulink_ec866942-87d0-5e85-bc37-c89148d01072)
I page down through the directions on my phone. The majority of my route consists of Highway 79—a fairly barren country road. It’s time to improve this road trip. Cue the music.
I turn on the radio. No sounds come out. Like any typical person, I twist the volume knob all the way to full blast, and there’s nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada. At the very least a monophonic ocean should be heard. A new six-disc changer sits where my mom’s factory-installed stereo used to be. What type of music is in my mom’s CD player? Let’s hope button number three is cruise worthy. Sometimes my mom has good tunes.
Button number three has transported me back in time to the eighties. I grab onto my ears, trying to shield myself from future nightmares. The sounds create visuals of oatmeal soaked with blood. What is this, the soundtrack from The Golden Child? I shake my head and clutch the steering wheel. The noises change. They’re no longer Tibetan monks, but something much different. I have no freaking clue what sound is coming out of the speakers, but it’s not normal. I feel like an alien has invaded the stereo and is trying to communicate with me through their native tongue. This girl did not get the Groupon for Rosetta Stone. I don’t speak or understand alien or whatever it is that’s screeching through the car.
Pushing every button over and over doesn’t stop the sounds. Rihanna isn’t singing, “Please Don’t Stop the Music.” Rather, I’m screaming, “Stop the noise!”
The off button is staring back at me like a cruel joke. It doesn’t budge. I try turning the volume knob all the way off. It falls into my palm.
“No!” This can’t be happening to me.
I inhale and begin pushing all the buttons, trying to short-circuit this sadistic machine. Yet, the weird sounds clamor on. I have no choice but to unroll the windows. The wind roaring outside the car is my only salvation against these horrible, repetitive beats.
I lean my head out the window to try and silence the clamor. Whoosh sounds are pouring in through my left ear while my right is full of offbeat wind chimes and deep throated chanting. This is torture. What the hell is this music? Actually, that’s an insult to musicians. This is noise. My mom doesn’t listen to this. It sounds like something you might hear in a patchouli factory or something.
“Aurora!”
Aurora must have used my mom’s car earlier and listened to this…this…abomination. I’m driving fifty miles an hour down an open Texas highway with nothing but road in my rearview mirror and even if someone was near me, they still couldn’t hear me because of this blasting noise! This is the worst.
The little blue dot on the map is a bit farther than I thought it would be. Halfway there, super! Half-full thinking, right? I try to tune the monstrosity out of my head. A text message pops up on the screen. It’s from Megan. Not really interested in reading what she has to say right now. The little red circle with the white number one can stay in the upper right corner of my green box. I’m not going to check it out.
Go to your happy place, Lauren, go to your happy place. What is my happy place? A beach—yes, a beach. Ooh, white sands. It’s powdery. Powder reminds me of the brown water I had to choke down this morning. This is not my happy place.
Go back to the beach, Lauren. Okay, I’m in the sand. There’s a tan, hunky guy bringing me a margarita. He smiles and offers me the frozen goodness. It’s rimmed with big chunks of salt. I lick the salt and take a drink. Ooh, that’s tasty. The breeze from the ocean gently blows my hair, while the sun is warming my skin. Paradise.
Bumpity bumpity bump. Oops! I’ve merged into the other lane. Thankfully, I’m still alone on the road. No close calls there. I shake my head. Regardless, I need to pay better attention. I scan down at my phone again. I’m three-fourths of the way there.
“Move, blue dot, move!” I shout into my phone.
This noise is beyond horrible. It’s like something out of Zero Dark Thirty—the kind of sounds used to break terrorists. This could possibly be worse than waterboarding. Okay, maybe it’s not that bad. My phone beeps at me. Another text message, she can be so persistent. As if she can will me into responding. Not going to happen. I’m not even reading it Megan, so there.
Deep breaths, Lauren. Just concentrate on breathing and driving. You can do this.
My chest rises and falls. I wipe some of my hair from my eyes. I am not a fan of hair blowing in the wind, at least not at this speed. These better be the best freaking pecans in Texas. No, the planet. Scratch that, the world! I shake my fist at my car’s ceiling.
They probably are the best in the world. My grandmother has impeccable taste. She always has and most likely, despite this possible lapse in judgment, still does. These pecans will be the crunchiest, tastiest pecans that anyone has ever sunk their teeth into.
Hmm, does my grandmother still have her teeth? I run my tongue along the tops of my own. Each ones feels securely in place. Having dentures has always been a fear of mine. But the idea of dental implants is even scarier to me. The idea of a dentist drilling into my jaw to secure the metal to hold onto a fake tooth. I shake my head and shoulders. I need to focus on good things.
Thinking about my grandmother brings happy memories. She is a sweet woman. I can do this. The perfection of the pecan pie is my motivation. I ignore the chanting from the stereo. My blue dot is getting closer to the destination. I breathe and concentrate on the road.
My phone beeps again. This is getting ridiculous, doesn’t Megan realize I’m driving? There is a law about no texting and driving for a reason: it’s dangerous. I roll my eyes.
Finally the Tibor’s Pecan Farm sign appears in the distance. Obviously the pecans stand on their own accord, because this sign has seen better days. It’s flapping in the wind, surely flipping pieces of rust with each buckle of metal moving back and forth. I can’t imagine it surviving a stronger wind than this. If I hadn’t grown up in Tornado Alley, I’d be doing more trembling than the sign and looking for cover. The pecan orchard is massive. There have to be thousands of pecan trees and they are so evenly spaced. I bet they look amazing from a plane. I nod my head in amazement and turn my wheel to the left as I ease onto the unpaved road. The parking lot is packed with cars and people. Where were all these cars on the road?
Everyone is staring at me. Some people are giving me unfriendly stares. An older woman with a young girl is eyeing me with one of the largest slack jaws I have ever seen. Ah yes, my patchouli music. I momentarily forgot due to the distraction of finally finding the pecan farm. I roll up the windows as fast as the motors will allow, desperately hoping that I’m drowning out the sounds. Fortunately, I find an empty spot at the back of the parking lot. I steer my mom’s obnoxious vehicle in between the two cars, neither of which has left much room for me to park. But I manage to squeeze the car in. I turn the key to the left and slump my shoulders.
The vanity mirror reflects a magnificent sight. There’s nothing like a windblown mess to reel in the guys. Not that I would expect to find any at a pecan farm in the middle of nowhere, but that’s beside the point. I channel my inner Marilyn and get out of the car. This is good.This is good. I can do this.
I try to comb through my hair, and my fingers get stuck. Really? I shake them out of my tangled locks, wincing at the pain with each pull. This is going to require some serious conditioning. Which reminds me, Aurora put some sort of health-nut, free-of-dyes, and ingredient-specific conditioner on my list. Maybe I’ll borrow some when I get home.
I throw my purse over my shoulder as though I’m fastening a holster and do my best at marching into the store. However, in my strappy red heels, this is nearly impossible. I look more like a duck wobbling than a soldier going into battle. The plywood door is rough and filled with possible painful splinters. I push it open. You would think with the amount of cars in the parking lot this place could afford a better door or at least sand this one down. Bells jingle and jangle against the lawsuit waiting to happen as I step onto the creaky floor. More plywood, or what is that called…subfloor? Really, bare subfloor? Yikes, this place needs a dream makeover or something. I shake my head and take in a deep breath.
The inside of the building is small, especially given the number of people who are in it, and it smells. The aroma is so strong it’s almost like sticking your head into a burlap bag filled with shelled nuts. It’s the woodsy scent that usually fills the kitchen and the fireside hearth when you crack open nuts over the holidays, because when else are you cracking nuts? Unless the pistachio market campaign is working, and everyone is “getting cracking” even during non-holiday moments.
All of the customers are in a single line, even though there are two cashiers. Both seem to be rundown and in need of a 5-hour Energy or shot of vitamin B, because they’re taking their time running their registers. Tap, tap, tap, tap. “Cash, card, or check?”
Who uses checks?
Both customers already have their cards on the counter. It takes a second for either cashier to notice, and then in unison they slowly pick up the cards. Tap, tap, tap. Ka-ching. “Please sign here.” The customers rapidly sign their names as if they’re going nuts to get out of here.
The store has several empty barrels placed throughout, and in the center are three aisles consisting of five wooden shelves each. They appear to be empty, too. I start to freak out.
Like a beacon of hope, there is a plastic bag, smaller than my purse, pushed to the far end of one of the shelves. I race across the shop and snatch it up. I clutch it to my chest as if it’s the last morsel of bread, and I’m stranded on an island with no hope of rescue.
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