“And for Cecil, I’ve baked a pecan pie.” After running through the menu of Christmas goodies she had prepared, my mother-in-law Ruth had a special pie waiting just for me.

 

Ruth and I had a complicated relationship. Said simpler, we didn't much like each other. I quit taking it personally when I realized she didn't exactly gush about anyone.

 

Ruth and her husband Russell lived in Indiana, and our family typically alternated holidays between Indiana and Texas, where Sara and I live. As the in-laws grew older, we would go north every year to visit them.

 

Typically hospitable if not warm, Ruth played the role of good hostess by offering a slice of Texas Christmas in Indiana. She began a tradition of baking pecan pies. I'm the only one in the family who will eat pecan pie, so the annual pies were made especially for me.

 

Her first try was, frankly, the worst pecan pie I've ever had. Several things went wrong, but the most memorable was the presence of some pecan shells in the pie. A lot crunchier than anyone would want.

 

I gently tried to pass along via Sara that the pecans needed to be better shelled, knowing from family history that this wreck of a pie might be the first and last pecan pie Ruth made for me. When they were newlyweds, Ruth had baked a cherry pie for Russell, who pointed out to his bride that the cherries hadn't been pitted and watched in surprise as Ruth snatched the pie and tossed it, pan and all, into the trash can. She never fixed him another cherry pie in seventy-one years of marriage.

 

That storm didn’t blow through this time around. Instead, Ruth kept trying to bake me a better pecan pie.

 

Now, you must understand that a pecan pie has three states: underdone, perfect, and burned. There is a very small window of time between these three states, which I personally have never gotten right, so I don't make pecan pies. Ruth kept earnestly trying to thread that needle.

 

Most years, the pie was burned. I would load on whipped topping to mask the taste and add moisture as I ate a slice of pie at every meal. There were other luscious options of pie and cake, but because the pecan pie was strictly for me, I saddled up and ate it throughout the holiday until it was gone.

 

On occasion, the pie was underdone, a gooey but tasty mess. One time, Ruth achieved perfection, which I welcomed and praised and never received again, despite her best efforts.

 

Now I have sweet-as-pecan-pie memories of our annual ritual. It wasn’t torture but a truly touching reciprocal gesture with someone who was difficult to love and found it hard to express love. The most loving thing Ruth ever did for me was to bake that pecan pie. And the most loving thing I ever did for her was to eat it.