Pecan Pie. Because I Can.

When I was around 19 years old, a guy I was going out with finished with me. He said it was because I was fat. As it happens I was having about as much fun hanging out with him as he appeared to be having hanging out with me so there was not too much love lost on either side, and I also have an abiding suspicion that, having cottoned on to the underwhelming vibe he was getting from me, he was probably bailing out before he was shown the door.  And the comment was probably part of an attempt on his part to exorcise his resentment. But at 19 you don't ponder things on quite such an empathetic level and I was mildly disconcerted. I made my way over to see a friend and told him about it. He advised me that the only possible response to this would be to head for the nearest chocolate shop. We were in Luxembourg at the time - the dumping of the relationship, and me, had taken place in a cheap hotel somewhere in the city centre during a European student conference of some kind, I forget which - and the de rigeur chocolate was Suchard. So we hit the Suchard shop, drank memorably foamy hot chocolate, and then, mixing our seasons up madly, bought sachets of Suchard mini Easter Eggs and sale price chocolate Santa Claus figures, brought them back to my hotel room, and ate the lot. I was reminded of this episode a few weeks back when I went to see a registrar to have my knee injury reviewed. Registrars are all, in my experience, tall, distant, knowledgeable in a general way, totally unclued on your case, and far too busy to care about it. This one was no exception - brisk shake of the hand, open up the file on my history which he has not taken a look at at all until right now, a few stupid questions which I reply to by directing him to said file from between clenched teeth, and a quick diagnosis and a flourishing signature on the discharge form. Registrars hate to ask any questions because they are too busy to answer them. This is an orthopaedic clinic and they have at least 50 people to see after me, all of them in the clinic, on their 3rd hour of waiting, and baying for his blood. I have sympathy for his dilemma. The problem is that this pressure results in a series of clipped generalities rather than targeted, context specific advice. He stands up to go. So can I go back to my usual exercise, I ask. Well I wouldn't run any more, he says, and exists at speed, stage left. I ponder this on the bus home and when I get in, the first thing I do, the very first thing, is register for the 2014 Race For Life. It is only a 5k run, so we are not talking Mad Marathon. But I know that what the registrar has given me is generalised advice. He has not taken into account the frequency with which I exercise, or my sheer bloody minded determination to overcome challenges. He clocks my age, looks at my knee, and makes a snap judgement. I don't judge this harshly. I do this to myself a lot so why wouldn't he do it to me? If I want others to look me in the eye, I need to do the same to myself. I leaf through my favourite cookbook. Pecan Pie. I have never attempted this. It is one of my fave puddings and despite my increasingly complex repertoire I have always considered a pecan pie to be somehow beyond me. Time to put my money where my mouth is. I study the recipe, it becomes increasingly clear that this is going to be a walk in the park compared to the 15 stage marquise au chocolat, I stick the IPod on - Loudly - don my favourite apron (siren , don't-mess-with-me red), and start chopping a mountain of pecans. My pecan pie, when it comes out, looks more like a tart than a pie. It has a decidedly European, rather than American air. I conclude that rather than a baking failure this is simply me interpreting recipes with my own signature style. I cut a slice. It is delicious. It is lemony and buttery and nutty, and the pastry is sweet and mellow. It is fantastic. I lean back and sip my tea, and allow myself to imagine that if I can defy my registrar to run 5k for a cancer charity, and bake my nemesis recipe, then the list of things I would want to do but consider myself too humble/incapable/old/cool to do, has just got much, much longer.