Sweet Georgia Brown

We had a large pecan tree in the back yard of my childhood home in South Georgia. To my young eyes, the tree seemed enormous, a towering giant, like the Swiss Family Robinson house. I was completely intimidated by its height -- so intimidated that I never tried to climb it, even though I relaxed in its shade and looked up through its leaves at the Southern sky.

My older brother was more adventurous. He climbed the pecan tree often. One day he had to pay his dues when he fell from the upper reaches and broke his leg. This was oddly satisfying. See, I had been smart. I knew how to stay safe. I had been warning him, and he had ignored me. He had also been breaking our family rule: don't climb onto a branch smaller than your thigh, because it won't hold your weight. He didn't see things in quite the same way. I don't think he ever regretted his decision to climb, and he continued to climb trees for years after that.

The tree also made a good third base for neighborhood ball games. It withstood a lot of sliding and hugging and never seemed to mind at all. I remember feeling smug if I touched the tree, because my four brothers were determined that no girl was going to make it all the way around to home base on their watch. But I showed them that girls are tougher than they look.

More important than any of this, the tree had treasure that fell from the sky in November. Pecans. Thousands of them in smooth, oval brown shells filled the lawn. We had metal nut crackers. When the pecans began falling, I would sit under the tree and crack the shells open and eat the sweet, mellow meat inside, even though the squirrels became agitated, chattering at me and throwing the nuts down on my head. At some point near Thanksgiving, my mother would decide the tree had dropped its harvest and give us brown paper bags. We'd collect the pecans and bring them inside where we cracked them open, cleaned them, and turned them into pies with dark Karo syrup, eggs, and vanilla.

Every year, I was amused by a side show. My brothers became impatient with the tedious work. One of them left the room and came back with some hammers. Soon, they were all crushing the nuts with smashing blows. The sound was deafening as pieces of nuts flew across the room. An adult rushed in to scold them for making pecan dust. Fortunately, there were always plenty of whole pecans still left.

A pie made from fresh pecans is unlike any other in the world. I can still taste it, still smell it, still see the dimpled, gooey goodness sitting in a fluted crust. This dream in brown was the holiday. It was Thanksgiving and family and Christmas. Perfect and simple. It was the comfort of home.

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Do you have a favorite holiday recipe from your childhood?