By Late December 2020. The year is ending. I have been a college graduate for two weeks and a fellowship researcher for three months and a person who has built something real from very little for the past four years. I am twenty-two years old. I have been out of the foster system for four years and two months. I have made more than four hundred Sunday dinners in that time, counting the ones I made alone and the ones I made at Gloria table. I have made four batches of banana pudding that she approved of. I have mastered fried chicken and biscuits and collard greens and mac and cheese and pecan pie and gumbo and braised things and bread and candy and macarons and croissants. The list is long. It gets longer every month. I will cook for the rest of my life and the list will never be finished and that is entirely the point.
Christmas at Gloria and James was five days this year. I drove up on December twenty-first and stayed until the twenty-sixth. James moved at his own pace and told stories every evening and wore the collared shirt to the Christmas dinner. Gloria and I made everything together in the kitchen over three days: the turkey and the ham and the dressing and the sweet potato casserole and the pies and the rolls.
On Christmas Eve she gave me her index cards. The originals, her handwriting, slightly stained, the ones from her mother and the ones she wrote herself. She put them in a small tin with a lid. She said: these belong with you now. You know everything that is on them. Take them so they are safe.
I drove home with the tin on the passenger seat. It did not feel small. It felt like the largest thing I have ever been trusted with. Which is exactly what it is.
Gloria made pralines every Christmas, and they were always the last thing we made together — the kitchen already full of turkey and ham and rolls — because she said candy deserved your full attention. When I drove home on the twenty-sixth with her tin on the passenger seat, I knew that recipe was in there, her handwriting, slightly stained, passed down from her mother’s mother. I made a batch that New Year’s Eve alone in my apartment, and they came out exactly right, and I cried a little, and that felt completely appropriate. This is that recipe.
Southern Pralines
Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 20 min | Total Time: 30 min | Servings: 24 pralines
Ingredients
- 1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
- 3/4 cup packed light brown sugar
- 1/2 cup whole milk
- 6 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into pieces
- 1 1/2 cups pecan halves
- 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
- Pinch of salt
Instructions
- Prep your surface. Line two large baking sheets with parchment paper or a silicone mat and set them near the stove. Pralines set fast, so have everything ready before you start.
- Cook the sugar mixture. Combine granulated sugar, brown sugar, and milk in a heavy-bottomed medium saucepan over medium heat. Stir constantly until the sugars dissolve and the mixture comes to a boil.
- Bring to soft-ball stage. Clip a candy thermometer to the pan. Stop stirring and cook, swirling the pan occasionally, until the mixture reaches 236°F (soft-ball stage), about 10–12 minutes.
- Add butter and pecans. Remove from heat. Add the butter pieces, pecans, vanilla, and salt. Do not stir yet — let it sit undisturbed for 2 minutes to cool slightly.
- Beat until creamy. Stir vigorously with a wooden spoon for 2–3 minutes until the mixture thickens, loses its gloss, and becomes slightly opaque. Work quickly — it will set fast.
- Drop and set. Working fast, drop rounded tablespoons onto the prepared baking sheets, spacing them 2 inches apart. Let pralines cool completely at room temperature, about 20 minutes, until firm.
- Store. Layer between sheets of wax paper in an airtight tin at room temperature for up to one week — or in a small tin with a lid, if you have one.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 145 | Protein: 1g | Fat: 8g | Carbs: 19g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 20mg