Of all the American classics, pecan pie might be my favourite. Its warm, buttery comfort sometimes lured me to Oxford’s famous ice cream parlour, G&Ds, on cold autumn evenings. I’d sit by the window, late into a Sunday night, with forkfuls of warm pie and sips of ice-cream-blended-hot-chocolate, alone with my essay deadline. There was something peaceful and detached about watching rain-blurred fragments of people and lights and umbrellas and colours smear past the steamy windows in the darkness and the rain. Pecan pie, like the parlour itself, was both a part of Oxford and an escape from Oxford. I felt about G&Ds as Holly Golightly did of Tiffany’s; nothing very bad could happen to you there. Not even Monday morning could come for you there.
Fast forward a year, to a different autumn and a different place, pecan pies remained an occasional Sunday evening escape. 10 degrees below freezing and three thousand miles from home, I watched a different blur of people and lights hurry home through falling snow, and felt faraway.
Even the best food grows heavy in a mouth that cannot swallow. But though pecan pie may never have solved any of my problems, it provided moments of warmth and respite in harsh climates. And sometimes that’s all a pie needs to do. View Full Post