I had something to prove. I was just 22 and just married. My husband, BP, had to work our first day back from our honeymoon. I begged out of a shower for an acquaintance so I could stay home and set up the apartment. It was truly a hell of a day. The newly delivered dryer didn't work, I scratched the bathtub trying to scrub metal venetian blinds, and plaster fell on my head as I teetered on the top of a twelve foot ladder trying to change a lightbulb. That's the abbreviated version of my day. But it wasn't over yet. In my misguided optimism, I had invited my Aunt Mildred and Uncle Richie over for dessert.
At age 49 I know that when in such a situation one may justifiably cancel the engagement or go to the store to buy a cake. One might, if extraordinarily ambitious, bake a cake from a box mix. However, if the person in question is a very young and naïve newlywed, she will think it is a good idea to attempt her very first, made from scratch, crustless pecan pie. Why pecan pie? I can only guess at my own motivation here. I had only eaten pecan pie a few times, but I was aware that BP liked it. Mostly, it struck me as sophisticated, especially coming from a background in which homemade pies were never really thought of. I was going to show the world that I could do anything.
So I took out the never actually used cookbook that I lifted from my mother's house. I carefully measured all the ingredients and deposited them in my brand new mixer. I turned it on high and stood frozen in horror as corn syrup and molasses spurted in every direction and dripped down our kitchen cabinets, leaving streaks on our newly painted yellow walls. Having very little time before our guests arrived, I tried my best to ignore the stickiness of the floor. I remeasured the ingredients and turned the mixer on low. Successful this time, I stirred in my pecans and poured the mixture into what I thought was a standard pie plate. I filled it right up to the top and had batter to spare, although I didn't know why. I placed it in the oven and got to the business of cleaning the mess. When Aunt Mildred and Uncle Richie arrived, I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the goop that oozed under the freestanding metal cabinet that we had just acquired. To there credit, they did not laugh or run. Without a word, they grabbed cleaning supplies and joined us in the disaster relief effort.
Things were looking up until someone smelled something burning. No, the pie was not on fire. But I now know that the pie plate I'd received at my bridal shower was not standard size. Pecan pie batter was bubbling over the rim of the plate and was hardening across the bottom of the oven that had managed to stay in good condition from the 1930's until my first day with it.
After a stint of wiping and scraping, we managed to settle in the living room with slightly burnt pecan pie and a big pot of tea. It was an experience and ultimately, it was fun. It didn't taste half bad and we had a nice little visit. Despite the stress, the mess, and total exhaustion, this first experience of cooking gave me a sense of satisfaction. It wasn't perfect or anything close to the evening I'd imagined. But I did prove something. I proved to my aunt and uncle and BP that I was not an accomplished cook. But I proved to myself that I can make a simple plan, watch that plan go off the scale haywire, and fight my way through every difficulty until things come out alright. BP still says that it was the best pecan pie he ever ate.
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