A pecan pie is sitting on my kitchen counter as I write this, calling to me to come have just a little taste, it’s only a taste. Two days ago, a sliver was gone. Yesterday, there was half. And tonight, I have managed to widdle the remaining slice to less than a quarter of its original circular shape. I made this pecan pie myself. In fact, I made two pecan pies, which together made up my first attempt at one of my favorite Thanksgiving treats. My Aunt also made a pecan pie (she didn’t know I would be making two) and an apple pie, my other aunt bought two pumpkin pies, and my mom bought pumkin and lemon meringue pies.
Eight pies for 18 over-stuffed people after our Thanksgiving dinner last Thursday. We touched only three of the eight; hence, there are several still left, and naturally these leftovers have remained at my house, enticing me to finish them before they go bad. There is nothing that bothers me more than wasted food. And so, every time I think of it (which turns out to be at least once every 60 minutes), I head to the kitchen, grab a clean fork, and nibble on my pick of the hour, right out of the pie dish (no sense in using another plate for only a couple bites), just enough so that the edge I’m re-sizing is straight when I’m done. I put my used utensil in the dishwasher every time, thinking it will lessen the chances of me repeating my habitual snacking, but this technique has only led to a shortage of forks by dinner. But really, what is Thanksgiving if not for eating large quantities of food with people you love, and then eating that same food for days after?