Hope in a Pecan Pie
For the past few years, my mom’s health has been declining. Parkinson’s, macular degeneration, chronic infections, confusion—the curse of the aging human body and mind can leave us without much hope. If it wasn’t for my generous sister who retired early, sold her home, and moved halfway across the country to live with my parents and care daily for my mama, I don’t know what we would have done.
Rich and I flew down to be with the three of them this Christmas. And like most families, there are certain holiday traditions that have to happen or else, well, it just isn’t Christmas. There are certain decorations that have to come out: the Christmas place mats, the tin candle holder that (believe it or not) I made in high school metal shop, the wobbly stuffed Rudolph with his nose kissed off by my sister as a toddler, the little light-up Christmas tree that my mother, in her 30’s, created in a ceramics class, the red and white stockings with our names written in 1960’s glitter. And then there’s the food. Molasses cookies sprinkled with red and green sugar, pretzels with melted Hershey kisses and m&m’s on top, Claxton fruit cake, and of course, pecan pie.
I have always admired my mom’s perfectly crimped pie crust edges. Over the years I have tried my best to master the skill, but my pies have never had the uniformly scalloped edge like hers—each beautifully pinched curve around her index finger, each zig and zag the same exact distance apart all the way around the pie. Somehow, I always end up with a particularly wide zig or a scrunched-up zag. When I was very little, we mixed and rolled our own homemade pie crust, which left the kitchen counter and our aprons covered in sifted flour. But sometime over the years, the shift was made to Pillsbury refrigerated crusts (just unroll it and place it in the pan). Still, the crimping of the edge remains an art form.
I had unrolled the crust and laid it carefully in my mom’s old clear glass Pyrex pie plate. “Mom, can you help me do the edge?” She was seated at the kitchen island, watching my sister and I mix up the pecan filling. I slid the pie plate closer to her as she reached for it. But I soon realized she couldn’t see well enough to find the edge of the plate. She was trying to fold the crust in the middle of the pie. “Here you go.” I guided her hands over to the edge and turned the plate slowly. As her fingers tried to pinch the border, the side of the crust fell inward. I patted it back into place and fixed the edge the best I could. She worked her way around the pie as I turned the plate and repaired any damage. This pie was not going to win any prize at the fair, but it would do. We poured the filling into it and stuck it in the oven. And when we took it out and set it on top of the stove, I thought it actually looked pretty decent. And that delightfully sweet aroma of roasted pecans and warm syrup filled the house.
Later that afternoon, my sister went into the kitchen to start cooking dinner. Setting a pot on the stove next to the pie, she accidentally turned on the wrong burner. None of us realized it until we began to hear something sizzling. The pie started bubbling and smoking, and then there was a POP! The pie plate burst into pieces, sending a few chunks of glass to the floor.
Apologizing, my sister swept the floor, and our beautiful pie went into the kitchen trash can, with oozing, yummy, eggy syrup dripping over caramelized pecans amid sharp pieces of broken glass. I could have cried.
After dinner, my sister volunteered to go back to the grocery store and buy the ingredients we needed to make another pie. And this time, when we rolled out the crust and put it in the pan, my mother was remarkably alert. Her sight even seemed better, and her fingers knew just how to fold and pinch the crust edges all the way around. I could hardly believe it. It was as if she was glad for a second chance.
It wasn’t as precise as she would have done it ten years ago. But in my eyes, it was absolutely perfect.
Suzanne Rood is the author of A LIMP OF FAITH (Credo House Publishers, 2019), her story of daily life with CMT, a hereditary neuropathy that challenges her walking, her music, and her faith. Here’s a link to purchase the book on Amazon.