How to Bake the Perfect Pecan Pie (5 page)

“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

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-f 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.

This can’t be the last
bag of pecans
. I scrutinize the shelves. There has to be another bag. Maybe one hidden in another area. One that’s out of view. Perhaps stashed by a store employee who is unable to take a break and buy it, so they’re waiting till closing.

The last time I’d seen a store stripped this bare was right before the supposed Y2K bug. Did Tibor’s Pecan Farm suffer a drought this year or something? It doesn’t make sense that they would be sold out of pecans, especially since this store is in the middle of nowhere.

I lift what seems to be the last bag of pecans. It’s very light. I read the label. The bag weighs eight ounces. This is not good. My grandmother’s recipe calls for ten ounces of Tibor’s pecans. I’m not a math whiz, but I can quickly do this subtraction in my head without the use of my phone’s calculator. I’m two ounces short of a successful pecan pie.

I clickety clack up and down the three aisles of the store, hoping I missed something on my first round. My eyes didn’t deceive me. Every shelf is empty. I can’t remember this place being so small. Is this even the same place I used to visit as a child?

Maybe, this is some weird family prank. The only things hanging from the ceiling are a few cobwebs and a dangling light fixture that has seen better days, like from forty years ago or something. The front of the store is the same as when I walked in minus a few customers. No one is laughing at me. It seems that I’m alone in my panic.

I’m reminded of one of my mother’s sayings: “Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.” I roll my eyes and focus them on the line, which is getting shorter, and still no one seems to be paying attention to me. I don’t think anyone in this store is out to get me, or help me for that matter.

There’s a guy in an apron with the farm’s logo, sweeping with a broom, oblivious to my desperation.

“Excuse me? Are there any more bags of pecans in the back?” I ask.

“The back?” He looks up from sweeping broken pecan shells.

“Yes, the back.” My eyes are bulging out of my head. “The back of the store?”

I’m trying to remain calm, but I can’t deny my inner panic attack fairy is fluttering her wings inside my mind. My heart palpitates. Sweat beads are popping up along my nose and forehead. I wipe them away.

“We don’t have a back of the store. This is it.” He motions around us with his broom.
No
back of the store?

I’m not trying to give this store clerk a hard time. Everyone here seems like they’re tired and ready to go, including me
.
But I need another two ounces of pecans and this guy is making me drag answers out of him. To say I’m frustrated would be an understatement.

“Okay. Do you have any more pecans?” I throw my hands up in the air, obviously forgetting about my minuscule bag of pecans. The little packet soars through the store and lands right next to a pair of dark brown loafers. I rush to retrieve my bag, thankful that it didn’t open. I stop in front of the feet—feet that are attached to a tall guy.