Southern Decadence

Image courtesy of allposters.com

Thursday my day was blocked off by the hour, as written on the back of an envelope, which I referred to periodically to ensure I was on the correct task and timeframe. When I used forty minutes where I would have stood "idly" around and cleaned to instead do my grocery shopping (allotted for two pm), I was very proud of myself for my good use of time.

As I've noticed before, when given a shorter amount of time, my baking is quick and "matter-of-fact." I wanted to make a pecan pie this week, as I had been craving it for awhile. The Good Housekeeping version is very similar to my grandmother's recipe, though hers involves more pecans and less sugar, but right before I went grocery shopping my good friend Mitch gave me an enormous bag full Southern Living (which I continue to mistakenly call "Southern Comfort") magazines. The cover of one of those was a salted caramel chocolate pecan pie.

Heaven! Just what I wanted! So I branched off from my Good Housekeeping and made something from a different source. It was quick, easy, and is delicious! Though it is so rich I can only eat very little at a time (not a bad thing).

In the process of arranging the pecans

Drowning in caramel sauce!

When I described it to my (vegan) coworker Sydney, she said: “It sounds like diabetes.” And yeah, I totally see that. It is decadent. So southern and decadent it makes me feel like I live in an old plantation house, where I spend my days and nights alone, drifting down the dusty halls and grand staircase in my torn kimono, sipping my mint julep (minus the mint, sugar, and water) and talking to my fluffy white cat, Antebellum.

"Why, Antebellum, what a mighty fine day we're havin'," I'll murmur in Blanche Devereaux's voice, trying to focus my bleary eyes out at the setting sun dappling the magnolia trees, which are choked by Spanish moss. "I feel like a short-legg'd pony in a tall field'a grass."

The magnificent grandfather clock will chime five o'clock, signalling the hour for pie. I'll float over to a long table, where my gorgeous salted caramel chocolate pecan pie sits on a tiny china plate with a silver fork set beside it. A rusty lounge singer in a ratty boa will emerge from the gloom of the dining room, accompanied by a band in faded tuxedos, to sing "My Old Kentucky Home" in a wavering contralto. From then she'll move on to Patsy Cline's "If I Could Only Stay Asleep" (or Patsy Cline ANYTHING!), and I'll be singing through a mouth full of pie, and pretty soon you can't tell who's the lounge singer and who's the pie-eater.

So yeah, y'all, it's good.