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