Bourbon Pecan Pie

Late October, and the cookbook's reception has exceeded my expectations, which were modest, because the expectations of a fifty-two-year-old first-time author who wrote a book about her mother's Lowcountry cooking are not the expectations of a person expecting acclaim. They are the expectations of a person expecting to be read — to have the words received, the recipes tried, the love recognized. The recognition has come. Not in bestseller lists or national reviews but in the letters that arrive at the house, handwritten on stationery, from women (mostly women) who read the book and who recognized their own mothers in the pages.

The letters are the reviews that matter. A woman in Beaufort wrote: "Your mama's collard greens recipe is my mama's collard greens recipe." A woman in Savannah wrote: "I cried in my kitchen making the cobbler." A woman in Atlanta wrote: "Thank you for writing the book I could not write about my own mother." Each letter is a she-crab soup — a bowl of warmth offered by a stranger, received with gratitude, consumed with the understanding that the offering is the love.

James and Elise visited for a weekend. Elise brought a copy of the book, which she had bought at a bookstore in Columbia (not a signed copy from me — a bookstore copy, paid for, which is the compliment that matters: she chose to buy it). She had bookmarked the shrimp and grits recipe. The bookmark was the intention to cook it. The intention was the integration. And the integration was the book becoming part of Elise's kitchen, which is the book becoming part of Elise's life, which is the book doing what it was written to do.

I made fried chicken for the weekend — Mama's recipe, the cast-iron skillet, the buttermilk soak. The chicken was for James and Elise, and the making was the continuation, and the continuation was the book made edible.

The fried chicken carried the weekend — the buttermilk soak, the cast-iron skillet, the particular smell that fills a house and makes guests feel held before they’ve even sat down — but every table my mama set ended with something sweet, and a weekend visit with James and Elise deserved the same completion. Bourbon pecan pie is what she would have made: unapologetically Southern, warm from the oven, a little indulgent in the way that love often is. It felt right to bring the book all the way to the table, right through to dessert.

Prep Time: 20 minutes | Cook Time: 55 minutes | Total Time: 1 hour 15 minutes | Servings: 8

Ingredients

1 unbaked 9-inch pie crust (store-bought or homemade)
3 large eggs
1 cup dark corn syrup
1/2 cup packed dark brown sugar
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
2 tablespoons bourbon
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt
1 1/2 cups pecan halves

Instructions

Preheat oven. Heat your oven to 350°F. Fit the pie crust into a 9-inch pie plate and crimp the edges. Place it in the refrigerator to chill while you prepare the filling.
Make the filling. In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs, dark corn syrup, brown sugar, melted butter, bourbon, vanilla, and salt until smooth and fully combined.
Add the pecans. Stir the pecan halves into the filling, making sure they are evenly distributed throughout the mixture.
Fill the crust. Pour the pecan filling into the chilled pie crust, spreading the pecans out evenly so they cover the surface.
Bake. Bake on the center rack for 50—55 minutes, until the filling is set around the edges but has only a slight jiggle at the very center. If the crust edges begin to brown too quickly, tent them loosely with foil after the first 25 minutes.
Cool before slicing. Transfer the pie to a wire rack and allow it to cool completely, at least 2 hours, before slicing. The filling will firm up fully as it cools.
Serve. Slice and serve at room temperature or slightly warm, with a dollop of lightly sweetened whipped cream if you like.

Nutrition (per serving)

Bourbon Pecan Pie — The Dessert That Finished Mama’s Table