How to Bake the Perfect Pecan Pie by Gina Henning Read Free Book Online

vitamin B, because they’re taking their time running their registers. Tap, tap, tap, tap. “Cash, card, or check?”
    Who uses checks?
    Both customers already have their cards on the counter. It takes a second for either cashier to notice, and then in unison they slowly pick up the cards. Tap, tap, tap. Ka-ching. “Please sign here.” The customers rapidly sign their names as if they’re going
nuts
to get out of here.
    The store has several empty barrels placed throughout, and in the center are three aisles consisting of five wooden shelves each. They appear to be empty, too. I start to freak out.
    Like a beacon of hope, there is a plastic bag, smaller than my purse, pushed to the far end of one of the shelves. I race across the shop and snatch it up. I clutch it to my chest as if it’s the last morsel of bread, and I’m stranded on an island with no hope of rescue.
    This can’t be the last
bag of pecans
. I scrutinize the shelves. There has to be another bag. Maybe one hidden in another area. One that’s out of view. Perhaps stashed by a store employee who is unable to take a break and buy it, so they’re waiting till closing.
    The last time I’d seen a store stripped this bare was right before the supposed Y2K bug. Did Tibor’s Pecan Farm suffer a drought this year or something? It doesn’t make sense that they would be sold out of pecans, especially since this store is in the middle of nowhere.
    I lift what seems to be the last bag of pecans. It’s very light. I read the label. The bag weighs eight ounces. This is not good. My grandmother’s recipe calls for ten ounces of Tibor’s pecans. I’m not a math whiz, but I can quickly do this subtraction in my head without the use of my phone’s calculator. I’m two ounces short of a successful pecan pie.
    I clickety clack up and down the three aisles of the store, hoping I missed something on my first round. My eyes didn’t deceive me. Every shelf is empty. I can’t remember this place being so small. Is this even the same place I used to visit as a child?
    Maybe, this is some weird family prank. The only things hanging from the ceiling are a few cobwebs and a dangling light fixture that has seen better days, like from forty years ago or something. The front of the store is the same as when I walked in minus a few customers. No one is laughing at me. It seems that I’m alone in my panic.
    I’m reminded of one of my mother’s sayings: “Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.” I roll my eyes and focus them on the line, which is getting shorter, and still no one seems to be paying attention to me. I don’t think anyone in this store is out to get me, or help me for that matter.
    There’s a guy in an apron with the farm’s logo, sweeping with a broom, oblivious to my desperation.
    “Excuse me? Are there any more bags of pecans in the back?” I ask.
    “The back?” He looks up from sweeping broken pecan shells.
    “Yes, the back.” My eyes are bulging out of my head. “The back of the store?”
    I’m trying to remain calm, but I can’t deny my inner panic attack fairy is fluttering her wings inside my mind. My heart palpitates. Sweat beads are popping up along my nose and forehead. I wipe them away.
    “We don’t have a back of the store. This is it.” He motions around us with his broom.
No
back of the store?
    I’m not trying to give this store clerk a hard time. Everyone here seems like they’re tired and ready to go, including me
.
But I need another two ounces of pecans and this guy is making me drag answers out of him. To say I’m frustrated would be an understatement.
    “Okay. Do you have any more pecans?” I throw my hands up in the air, obviously forgetting about my minuscule bag of pecans. The little packet soars through the store and lands right next to a pair of dark brown loafers. I rush to retrieve my bag, thankful that it didn’t open. I stop in front of the feet—feet that are attached