My late father was a bit of a cowboy, and had been to the altar three times before he passed away at the age of 38. Now his second wife (my step-mother) was probably the kindest and most traditionally wonderful of the three wives. A school teacher. A Sunday school teacher. A beauty queen. A whole lot like Cinderella herself. Every Christmas she baked dozens of pecan pies, and hand delivered them to everyone she knew. She grew up among pecan orchards in Georgia, and had perfected the art. Yet, no one’s pies could ever measure up to hers. This drove the Third Wife particularly crazy – she was fiercely jealous of the Second Wife and had convinced herself that it that pecan pie that kept Cowboy Daddy looking back over his shoulder. Continue reading “Second Wife’s Southern Pecan Pie”
