By Tom Poland, A Southern Writer
TomPoland.net
You won’t find my mother’s secret to this recipe. It’s in the story. Photo by Debra Poland
When I heard Hurricane Helene destroyed some 42,000 pecan trees in Georgia, I thought of my mother and my last pecan pie, not the last ever, but the last one she made. I’ve not had a pecan pie as good as that one since, and I never will. Then again, maybe I will. Read on.
Dad left us November 15, 2023. Mom died March 26, 2015. The old house was finally alone, and my sisters and I set about cleaning it out. Part of the task involved the freezer where we found gold. My mother’s last pecan pie. She had put one back for another day. Thank heavens for the invention of the freezer.
We enjoyed that pie knowing it was the last of its kind, knowing it had a long history. My mother began cooking for her parents and siblings at the age of eight. That was in 1936, before the Great Depression eased its stranglehold on folks. Mom grew up to become a chef, though she never thought of herself as one. Could she cook? You better believe it. Sweet potato biscuits. Fabulous potato salad, and more, including, of course, those memorable pecan pies.
She had a secret as the recipe goes. I’ll share it, too, because others deserve to enjoy the wonderful pies she made. Maybe a reader will use her recipe and invite me to try it. And I might accept, depending on the time and circumstances.
Mama’s Pecan Pie (Keith’s Favorite)
Three eggs, well beaten. Add one cup of sugar. Half a cup of Karo syrup. One stick of melted butter. Once cup of chopped pecans. Mix all of the above and pour into an unbaked pie shell. Bake in oven at 350 degrees until done for about 45 minutes. To double the recipe add one half cup nuts to make three pies.
Thanksgiving is just around the bend. Thanks to Helene, pecans will be rare this holiday season, tantamount to gold nuggets. Helene destroyed mature and young trees, and since it takes seven to ten years for pecan trees to mature, we’ll be hurting for pecan pies. The good news, however, is that once a tree begins yielding pecans it can do so for 100 years.
Now let’s take a moment to consider the pecan orchard. To me pecan orchards are one of the South’s great beauties. I grew up across from a pecan orchard. I’ve long admired its stately rows, spaced just so. I recall seeing orchard after orchard in 2010 when I made a six-hour drive to the Bama-Florida corner to Colquitt, Georgia. The entire world seemed a pecan orchard draped in the South’s enigmatic symbol, Spanish moss. Did pecans for Mom’s pies come from those orchards? I’m sure some did.
Sometimes you feel like a nut; sometimes you don’t, but when you do feel like a nut few beat the pecan, North America’s only major native nut. Some folks call it a pe-can. Some call it a pe-cahn. I prefer pe-can, and I’m not referring to the old days when a pot beneath a bed proved more convenient than a walk to the outhouse. Besides, pe-cahn sounds a bit pretentious, like you’re putting on airs. And where does that debatable word come from? It’s Algonquian for a “nut requiring a stone to crack.”
The rich, buttery fruit from the Hickory family member tastes fabulous solo, in pancakes, praline candy, salads, and crusted on trout. And if you’ve never tasted butter-roasted, salted pecans or pecans double-dipped in chocolate or glazed in cinnamon spice or honey, well, you’ve got some living to do, but come the holidays I want my Mother’s pecan pies. Nothing else will do.
Now her secret. Mom would toast the pecans just so before baking the pie itself. To me, her pies and their rich buttery, crunchy delight say Thanksgiving and Christmas more so than any other food. More so than turkey and dressing—not stuffing, dressing. More so than ham. More so than ambrosia.
P.S. Keith is my nephew and he loves pecan pie as much as I do. The pies don’t last long if we’re around.
