The smell of pecan pies cooking….

….reminds me of childhood memories of Christmas dinners at my grandparent’s house.  It was always expected that we would attend lunch (southern read “dinner”) and then go back for dinner (southern read “supper”).  It was a gathering of the family…all three boys, their wives, the grandchildren and their husbands/wives, and the great grandchildren.  When you bring all those together into a house that’s over 100 years old, it can get a little crowded and loud.

So you ask where the pecan pie fits into this.  Let’s first think about this word…pecan.  It has been argued as to the correct way to say this word.  I can never, and will never, say this word as it looks….separated….pe-can.  When it is said this way, it reminds me of what I used to urinate into in the middle of the night as a young child.  This isn’t very appetizing.  In that case, think of the word “pond” and say the “a” that way…pecan.  There you go!

The partner is in the process of baking southern pecan pies.  It is the most wonderful tasting thing in dessert-dom.  As a growing child/teen, I would eat a whole pie on my own.  That’s probably why I weighed 175 lbs (79.4 kg) in middle school.  No joke!  My Aunt Jeannette (pronounced AINT) would make two pecan pies to bring to my grandparent’s house.  When she arrived, most often times, I would already be there or would walk up there when I saw the car pull into the driveway.  When she saw me, she placed one of the pies into my hands and said, “Merry Christmas, Wes!”  I would immediately give her a big kiss and a hug!

Why wasn’t my mother handing me the pie?  Well, being from the family that pinched a penny till Lincoln screamed meant that the contents of the pies were not the same as the ones my aunt made.  Our family fridge contained a large jar of once made Po-Boy dark syrup.  To correctly pour out this syrup, you would unscrew the wide cap, carefully pour out the syrup, lift the jar back up, and in one solid motion with your pointer finger, run your finger along the opening of the jar.  This would wipe off the syrup stream and give you a taste of it when you sucked it off your finger!  Anyway, it tasted different than the Karo syrup (preferably white) needed for the recipe.  It cost a bit more and was not bought for the pies.  Hence the reason I always ate my aunt’s and never my mother’s.  Call me a bad son, I know!

I am sure that in the morning, I will find my way to the fridge and get a slice of the pecan pie.  It will remind me of growing up with a loving family of women, holidays at the grandparent’s house, and why I take my ass to the gym! LOL

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