Dear Pecan Pie

Dear Pecan Pie,

I am not so fond of you. You come around during the holidays and many a folk are excited to see you--my own husband is a fan--but to me, eh...not so much.
As a baker in the South, I'm supposed to love you and invite you to every Thanksgiving feast. You are as American, as Southern as debutantes and moonshine. I can respect your upfront, honest appearance--what you see is what you get, and I like pecans, but I don't love them. And I think you must love pecans to love you. Then there's the issue of corn syrup...eww.

This year I caved. I had you over for Thanksgiving and truth be told, it was only because the husband begged and groveled. And even then, I only agreed because you dressed in bourbon and chocolate. I smiled politely and called you "Derby"--as if that could make me forget your choppy texture and sickly sweet, sloppy filling. True, I admire your pretty pecans when concentrically placed--those rings of toasted nuts, usually draw me in for a bite, but that's where it ends. One taste and I'm completely underwhelmed. Pretty, but no substance, you are shallow and one-dimensional. Pecan Pie, I just ain't buyin'--not even when you're smokin' hot and covered in vanilla ice cream. Next Thanksgiving, I'd make plans elsewhere if I were you.