There’s a certain heavenly aroma that wafts through the house when a sweet pecan pie is baking alongside an earthly pumpkin pie. To me, that’s Thanksgiving.
It’s a caramelicious-nutty, nutmeg-cinnamon-ginger, roasty-pumpkin goodness wrapped in a flaky-bready-crust aroma. It’s what warm and sweet and creamy smell like. It’s what the holidays smell like.
Malones are bakers, and what always made Thanksgiving for me was my Mom’s pecan pie and my Dad’s pumpkin pie. That’s how I knew it was almost turkey time. That’s how I knew Santa’s visit was near. That’s how I knew it was winter break. That’s how I knew I was home for the holidays.
And, it wasn’t just me. More than one year my Mom’s friend, Irene, stubbed her toe on the dining room table leg as she sprinted into our house for pie. My high school pal, Etta, became a pumpkin pie convert after tasting Dad’s secret recipe. My drum corps extended family, Mark, George and Eilene, always made time to stop by for dessert. To this day, many of my lifelong friends check in to see if there are Malone pies ready for the tasting.
We’re blessed my Dad is still with us to make pumpkin pie. I learned to make pecan pie, at my Mom’s request, the year she was sick: a wise move on her part as I had to take over baking that traditional confection the next year. In doing so every November, our house becomes wrapped in the scent of Thanksgivings past. With every whiff I am reminded of my family’s holiday history.
Thanks, Mom and Dad.
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