Читать книгу: «How To Bake The Perfect Pecan Pie»

To Kierney Scott – who I’ve been Going Pecans for since July 14^th 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

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter One

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

¼ cup white sugar

½ 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

½ 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 ¼ cups all-purpose flour

¼ teaspoon salt

½ cup butter, chilled and diced

¼ 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.