The Pecan Pie That Wasn't (I Made a Thanksgiving Funny)

This is a story about a pie.

I was in my teens, and through some complicated-ness was the cooker for our family with four kids. We had invited my grandpa to come for Thanksgiving.

Now this was a very, very special grandpa. He was the one that called the house and pretended he was Snuffleupagus, who was my special friend when I was little. He was the one who always let me win at checkers, but made me fight for it. He was also the one who had owned a little clam shack and knew a thing or two about cooking.

Now this grandpa loved, loved, loved pecan pie. I was not a pie baker. I could make chocolate chip cookies (how I hooked my future husband), I could do pasta and probably not burn it, I could even cook the turkey passably (dry but edible). But I wasn’t even clear on which pie pecan pie was.

Even so, I valiantly bought the ingredients and pre-read the recipe. I had no idea what I was going for. How do you explain pecan pie to someone? It’s goo with nuts in it? Well, I got goo. But then it got hard. Like, hard to cut hard. I suspected that this was not the desired result.

Still, I couldn’t just cut out a piece of his pie and try it. I’m guessing he knew from the first glance that it wasn’t right. Suddenly he was full. Yes, it was his favorite pie. Yes, he knew I baked it just for him. No, he couldn’t possibly.

Somehow it had become imperative that he knew that I loved him, and the only way in the universe he could know that is if he tried that pie. I needled and cajoled him until my dear sainted grandpa took a bite. He didn’t make a face. He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t take another bite.

It took me YEARS to try pecan pie again.