… and Pecan Pie

Pecan pie was always a part of the holidays when I grew up. It was on the dessert table in a place of honor. The taste, the smell … ingrained in my mind as a part of my childhood.
There was a restaurant across the street from Presbyterian Hospital: Anderson’s. They were famous for their pecan pie and, yes, they were indeed that good.

My daughters Carlaysle and Rose were born at Presby on rainy, cold, icy days. After they arrived … and cleaned … and weighed & measured … taken and glassed for the parade … fed for the first time and tucked in to bond with their mother …
I walked across the street alone and had pecan pie. I savored my Anderson’s pie and gave thanks to the universe for the beauty of everything.

My girls are grown, and Anderson’s has long since closed.

I’ll be alone for the holidays again this year, and I’m going to make a pie for myself. My world is a little colder than it used to be, but I hope to warm my own soul. I’m still thankful.

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