Do You Think I'm Sexy? 70's Rock & Pecan Pie

 On a busy Thanksgiving morning I thought you may enjoy two things:

1. A very short, slightly sappy story about pecans — one of the most important native foods for traditional holiday desserts. That’s below.

2. Some non-controversial* fun facts and history of another native food of the day - sweetpotatoes. *Yes, Sweetpotato-- It's Only One Word! This may be controversial if you have English majors at the table! Click the above link to jump to that.

And there’s a personal note at the bottom!

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It’s been a tough year for trees. Especially pecans. Commercial growers lost all. We lost 3 of 10 trees, and two of our beauties are halved. And we lost every single nut. It’s been a tough fall for me, too. More about that later.

So allow me to make an easy post today: an ode to pecan trees by Funky Little Flower Farm and some photos of pecans in their glory.

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Back in the ‘70s, my sister Weasa and I picked up pecans after school. We worked by the gallon: one gallon, one quarter. I could get twenty gallons, five dollars, of good nuts while she was complaining, or while she spent half the afternoon trying to make the whole situation more exciting by setting up a music system. She’d go up to her bedroom, open the huge windows, and perch a three-foot speaker on the sill. We didn’t have heat in the house, so it didn’t matter if the windows were open on chilly days. She’d stack eight-track tapes—Frampton Comes Alive!, Hotel California, and good old Rod Stewart. His Hot Legs got lots of play during those November afternoons. 

 Because my sister was the DJ while we picked up pecans, she kept running upstairs to switch tapes. Remember that thud sound that eight-track players made between songs? It’s not unlike the sound all those pecans made hitting my bucket while Weasa was busy with the music. All that prep and DJ time ate into her productivity. It was her idea and what she wanted to do, but since I also enjoyed the music and sang along, I should have given her part of my haul. At the end of the afternoon, though, I’d pour my unshared pounds of pecans onto the scales, then into the big communal bucket, and make a tally mark on the notebook Momma and Daddy kept to track our pay. 

  

 Just the other day, forty years later, we were picking up nuts together. Weasa’s a teacher now and she had stopped by after school. While we were putting nuts in our buckets, I wondered if she’d finally found the serenity—the satisfaction—in picking up pecans. I wondered if she had finally understood that this work represents the ethic that built old-style American farms, turned earth and muscle into food, turned excess into sales, and turned our attention to nurturing the land for the next generation. So I asked her, seeking a deep conversation. She stood up, shuddered from her shoulders down, not unlike how Daddy would have done when he saw a rat,  and said, “No, I hate it, every bit of it. But I love Momma’s pecan pies in the freezer all year.” Then she pulled out her phone and put on the new Rod Stewart, the Stardust duet album, and we went back to picking up pecans while Rod crooned. 

 I love Rod’s rendition of Way Back Home when he sings about the values that make a family strong: 

How can I ever thank you for the lessons 

that I’ve learnt

And the precious warmth and comfort 

that I’ve felt at every turn…

I will always find my way back, 

always find my way back home.

The nostalgic ballad plays in my head on this misty Sunday morning. Moos and motorcycle noises travel across the fields. I’m still squatting, brushing leaves off the cooling autumn earth. I crack a nut, pick the meat out, and give half to that old donkey who’s looking over my shoulder.  The dog wants some, too. Even taking time to share a little with the animals, I still get five gallons in twenty minutes. I pour them into Momma’s communal bucket. She’ll smile later, when she and a few of her friends, the ladies’ brigade, come out after church. They don’t squat. Instead, they use a variety of weapons, pecan picker-uppers of all sorts and designs. They pick up, sort, and cull, all the while planning for pecan pies, enjoying being together and taking pride in being industrious. It’s a social thing. Weasa will probably come and keep them company and talk about who’s not here. The thought makes me laugh a little, makes me proud. I want the nostalgia and serenity of this November moment to last, but a few nuts bam down on the tin roof, the donkey brays, and the twangy guitar riff from Hot Legs suddenly screams in my head. Thanks, Sis. In Rod’s words, “I love ya’ honey.”

This Week, it's on sale for 15 bucks. It’s a garden book but more a book of short stories. Click here to order. It arrives in a fun handpainted envelope made for you by one of our college interns, Lily, who’s home for Thanksgiving!

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And a note about my health. I’ve been struggling with how to write about this, but I really want to. It’s been a grueling few months. Today, as I write this, Tom and I are in Jacksonville at the Mayo Clinic. They specialize in these male issues, so they inspire great confidence and efficiency and hopefully maybe all this will be resolved by Christmas. I know you all will offer love and support. I’ll get to an essay soon, but I really want to take my time with it!