The first pecan pie I ever made was a masterpiece, golden brown with a slightly jiggly center, the perfect ecru crust, the oohs and aahs from my family who had only seen such a thing in the glossy pages of “Southern Living.”
And now, here in the intimacy of our own home, a Thanksgiving to remember, because of my pie. Smug in what was clearly an undiscovered talent, a gift, really, I committed to making pecan pie again for the next Thanksgiving. I followed the same recipe, used the same bowls, the same pie crust, pie pan, the same oven.
Total fail.
Times two, for I had doubled the recipe because everyone would want seconds, and some no doubt, thirds. It was a widening gyre moment; the center did not hold. I baked them for what seemed like hours, coaxing the things to set up while the pecans turned golden, then mahogany, then some brown not found in nature. The crust begged for mercy and still the filling was a molten runny mess.
I did my best to rescue it, served it up in sweet little compotes, whipped cream hiding most of the sins. Every pie from then on out was an equal, or even more, magnificent failure.
Until the day my friend, Marianne, shared her grandmother’s recipe. No fail, she said. Use an electric oven, an gas oven, or a wood burning stove. It doesn’t matter. You will never cry over the wasted life of a pecan again.
It starts with the recipe on the back of the dark Karo syrup bottle. There is a secret ingredient, but I can’t give it to you. But even without the substitution, it is the perfect pecan pie.
I suspect the secret ingredient was less about creativity in the kitchen and more an issue of having run out of something, but regardless, it is a simple recipe which will never disappoint.
You can find fancier pecan pie recipes, the highfalutin’ ones that use brown butter, honey, maple syrup and maple sugar–who ever heard of maple sugar? I am assured by the YouTube pie-maker it is a thing, but expensive and hard to find, so, really, just use regular brown sugar, she said, and I think she was just showing off.
No, I say, once a year, all that Karo syrup won’t hurt you. And I honor Marianne, and her mother, Haroldine, and those grandmothers and aunts I never met. As if I have invited East Tennessee to my Kentucky table.
My mother’s pumpkin pie was legend and she, too, used the recipe on the back of the can.
That can being, Libby’s pumpkin. In all the taste tests Libby’s pumpkin comes out on top and for a good reason. It is made from a variety of the Dickinson pumpkin. Libby’s own the strain of Dickinson pumpkin and no one but they can get their hands on the seeds.
Sometimes it is called the Dickinson squash and that is how all the rumors get started. But, no, my dear ones, it is a pumpkin and that is all there is to it. I suppose we could spend an evening debating the exact moment a squash becomes a pumpkin or a pumpkin becomes a squash, but what a dull evening that would be.
Just get a can of Libby’s, a can of evaporated milk, spices, and go to town.
Martha Stewart provides the pie crust, which I slowly master, and the bottles of corn syrup and cans of pumpkin do the rest. I may fiddle with the cranberry relish but the pies must never change. Not on Thanksgiving. Rainy Sunday afternoons are meant for experimenting in the kitchen. Then, just about anything goes.
But those pies are my mother, my friend and her people, whom I think I surely know, because Marianne is a storyteller and her family stories are as familiar as some of my own. My nieces and nephews will eat the pies and praise my efforts. They won’t know the many hands sifting, stirring, measuring spices, making do in a pinch, hands that bring them traditions the will mistake as ours, alone.
Greta McDonough 