When my mom was about twelve, her family moved to a lovely piece of property in the southwest. Behind the house, there was a small pecan orchard. Every December, as I understand it, my grandpa would hire someone to have the trees shaken so that he and his family could harvest the nuts. My grandparents lived in that house until I was about ten years old and I spent many a Christmas wandering that backyard and finding many a nut on the ground. Along with a fondness for my grandparents' small town home, I came to love pecans.
For Thanksgiving, Ben and I trekked back down that town, where many of my Dad's family still reside. As we sat at the crowded table, and I raised my fork to dig into a slice of pecan pie, I turned to Ben, gestured to the pie, and said (tongue in cheek, of course), "This right here is the meaning of life."
"What? Pecan pie?"
I shrugged. "Or just pecans," I replied. Since then, Ben has wondered aloud whether pecans were the forbidden fruit in the garden of Eden. It's unlikely, but the thought makes me smile.
Anyhow - the following month, as Christmas approached and I tried to answer the questions my husband and family posed about what I wanted to find under the tree, I found myself at a loss. Finally, I told my mom, "All I want this year are some pecans. And maybe some honey." I guess that means that I'm either a very content person (in spite of my constant whining from beginning to end of the Christmas season...hmm, that doesn't add up) or that I'm lacking in creativity. If I'm going to be completely honest, I'll have to admit that it was probably the latter.
However - after arriving home with the not one, but two bags of pecans I received for Christmas, I decided, this morning, to knead a handful into one of my loaves of bread. While doing so I popped a couple in my mouth and do you know what? I don't regret my request one bit. They taste just like the meaning of life.
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