National Pecan Pie Day. An ode to something holy
Custard, caramelized sugar, corn syrup baked until scented like dark molasses, dressing a flaky crust and topped with pecan halves.
There’s something sacred in that first bite, isn’t there?
The way your fork breaks through the glossy, amber surface with just enough resistance to promise what’s coming, that perfect balance of tender custard and the slight chew of corn syrup transformed into something far greater than its humble origins.
The molasses scent rises like incense, earthy and ancient, carrying whispers of Chicago kitchens and hands that stirred love into cast iron skillets generations before you were born.
It’s the smell of summer concentrated, of pecans falling from trees your great-grandmother might have shaken, of sugar caramelized by time and heat into something that speaks directly to your soul.
And then there’s that moment, the one Rolando understood when he left those blessed slices on your office desk, when you lift that perfect forkful crowned with its pecan half.
That nut, golden and buttery, sits like a small offering, a reminder that the best things require patience: years for the tree to grow, seasons for the fruit to ripen, hours for the pie to set just right.
The texture tells its own story as it melts against your tongue, neither fully liquid nor solid, but something in between, like the space between memory and hope.
It’s comfort made tangible, a reminder that sweetness exists not despite life’s bitter moments, but because of them.
Each bite is a small Communion with joy, with the friends who know your heart well enough to leave you unexpected grace, with the simple truth that some pleasures are profound precisely because they’re fleeting.
In those moments, fork in hand, you’re not just eating pie. You’re participating in something holy.