How To Bake The Perfect Pecan Pie. Gina Calanni

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.