Like many couples, Brian and I have more than one gathering for most holidays so we can celebrate with both sides of our family. Thus tonight I was in the kitchen getting ready for a Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow.
If I'm honest about the Thanksgiving dinners I had as a child, the good company and peaceful setting of my grandparents' little hometown in rural Arkansas outstripped the food. All the traditional holiday fare was yummy, but there weren’t any extraordinary dishes there except for one -- Mom's homemade Chess Tarts. These were muffin-tin-sized personal pecan pies. The made-from-scratch crust was flaky. For a day or two after they were made, the inside oozed a buttery brown sugar mixture when you took a bite. After a longer time – if they somehow lasted that long – the inside partially crystallized into vanilla-rich candy. You were good either way.
I didn’t try making my own Tarts until 2003. I remembered Mom’s Thanksgiving specialty were quite labor-intensive and I knew pie crust is one of those deceptively simple things that actually takes some kitchen mastery, so I had to screw up my courage before attempting them. That first batch? I would give that first attempt a B+ -- not quite there but a good effort. I’ve made them many times since, but somehow have never improved. I get no complaints and the tarts disappear quickly. They are tasty. Yet deep down I know they are not right. Perhaps I’m wishing too hard for that happily familiar bite from childhood.
This year is the first Thanksgiving in our new home. I’m living in my hometown again at last and we’ve put down roots. This year feels different. Tonight as I got ready to bake the Chess Tarts, I decided to enjoy the process and not worry about the finished product. I sifted flour while Brian read library books to Eli. I blended the shortening while following tales of baseballs, magic crayons, dragons, and kangaroos. As I divided dough into twenty-four equal balls and then pressed each one evenly into muffin tins, I listened to 1940s Swing music in the foreground and Eli singing in the bathtub in the background. Each ball of dough takes about a minute to spread properly in its tin. Multiply that times two muffin pans and it is a lot of time working quietly with buttery fingers. I thought about Mom, wondered what she thought about as she did this task in even larger scale each year.
“Ma-maaaaaaa! Don’t forget to let me help!” Eli hollered periodically, an echo from the bathtub. Soon Little Guy, damp-haired and smelling faintly like flowers, helped stir the pecans into the sugar-gritty filling. He wore blanket sleeper pajamas decorated with monkeys and bananas. If my Mom looked down from Heaven, surely the sight of the little grandson standing tip-toe to peer into the mixing bowl would coax out her kitchen blessings. (If this kiddo’s bright, eager eyes didn’t melt her, the goofy monkey faces on the built-in pajama feet would surely do the trick!) Sliding the first two pans in the oven gave a break for prayers and lullabies. I snuggled with Monkey Pajama Boy in his darkened bedroom, the smell of toasted flour and vanilla in the air. I called a dear friend for a quick catch-up while starting in on batch number two. And my husband cheerfully kept me company.
When the first pan finally came from the oven, it looked just right. It smelled just right. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and took a bite. Yes. At last. Just right.
All those years I’d been missing an essential ingredient – home roots.
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