Prior to living in Texas, I didn’t pay much attention to the pecan tree, or to pecans in general—besides the occasional candied one tossed in a spinach salad with pears and goat cheese. Even as a horticulture enthusiast and former private chef, I regrettably perceived the pecan as just an ordinary nut without much significance.
I feel uneasy admitting this, but I have never had a slice of pecan pie. Actually, I’ve never even tried a bite of pecan pie. In my defense, though, it is not for a lack of desire; I have celiac disease. When pecan pie is on the menu, it’s never gluten-free and safe for me to eat. But the truth is, even if I were to bake myself a gluten-free pie, I wouldn’t choose to bake pecan pie. I’d bake something that tastes like home to me — something fruity, a pie I grew up eating in New York State, where I was born and raised. My mother’s pumpkin pie and apple pie, made with local Empire State fruit, were served in perfect attendance each year on our Thanksgiving and Christmas tables.
Apples, known as America’s fruit, grow in abundance in the Northeast. But many are surprised to learn that they are not native to North America like pecans are. Some may argue that this makes pecan pie as American as, if not more American than, apple pie. And even though apple pie transcends regional barriers when pecan pie does not, and pecan pie has never been a part of my cultural identity, I agree. Pecan pie is purely an American creation.
But after moving to Texas a few years ago, I quickly noticed that the pecan tree and the pecan have a distinguished presence here. They are seamlessly sewn into the fabric of North Texas. Restaurants, parks, schools, streets and more are named after this adored nut. To Texans, it might seem obvious why they are revered — it is their state tree and pecans are delicious, after all, but to me, the prominence was striking, much like apples back home.
As I casually began listening to Texans recall their favorite pecan recipes and pecan memories, I started taking mental notes about their enthusiasm. For each person appeared to beam from within when reminiscing about the nut — even when recalling something unpleasant, like how painful it was to step on the cracked shells while walking barefoot across the grass on a warm fall day. Or the falling nuts relentlessly pinging on the roof during a stormy evening, making it rather impossible to get any sleep. No matter the nuisance, they embraced the good and the subjectively bad sides of the pecan.
I wanted to learn more. So I drove to Anna, Texas, to meet with Collin County’s largest pecan grower, Jim Luscombe, a proud Texas State Fair pecan pie judge and former Texas Pecan Growers Association board member. Luscombe and his wife, Robyn, graciously invited me into their home to talk about their pecan orchard and business, Foster Crossing Pecans.
As we started chatting around their dining room table, a coffee cup in my hand, I clumsily stumbled out the word “pee-can,” disclosing my Northerner status. Robyn assured me that I could call them whatever I wanted, but that “pee-cans” were what her grandmother kept in the car for those who might have otherwise had an accident. And we had a good laugh.
Truthfully, at that moment, my pronunciation felt very out of place. Slowly, throughout the day, I found myself rearranging the only way I’d ever pronounced the word to meet the Texans where they were at. I settled on pih-kahn, it felt right. KVUE Austin reports that the Texas Pecan Board conducted a survey in 2019 revealing that 41% of Texans agree “pih-kahn” feels right too, with “puh-kahn” at 34% behind it.
Luscombe is the fourth generation to inhabit his family’s land, but he is the first generation to cultivate a pecan orchard. For more than a century prior, cotton and then grains grew on the property. Luscombe grew up in Waco, spent his summers on the land in Anna and studied industrial engineering at Texas A&M. It wasn’t until later in his life, as an early retirement plan of sorts, that Luscombe returned to the land to grow pecans.
I asked Luscombe, why pecans? “I considered growing grapes,” he said. “I also considered growing peaches. But those crops were going to be quite labor intensive. Pecans are Texan. And my property has native pecan trees that are hundreds of years old still standing on it. Nature told me, this is where pecans oughta grow, and I said, alright then, sign me up.”
Luscombe began planting his orchard in 2000, knowing that his trees wouldn’t be ready to harvest for about 15 years. He chose two improved varieties with paper shells to live among his 250-year-old grand native pecan trees, Pawnee and Desirable. Pawnee is known for its larger nut size and early nut maturity, and Desirable for its consistently high-quality crops year to year. While the grand natives no longer produce pecans reliably, they are wholly magnificent creatures to stand among. Their striking dark brownish-black bark and gangly branches towering overhead command your presence and humble you.
As I drove up to Anna, the rural scenery was a welcomed change from the urban environment I was used to. But I couldn’t help but notice the hundreds of newly constructed homes positioned directly across from his orchard. Luscombe gestured, “They built those 470 homes about five years ago,” and went on to acknowledge that urban growth is complex and that fewer growers are continuing to hold onto their land because the incentive to sell is more enticing than ever with the current record-breaking land value in North Texas.
“I want to be a good steward of this land,” he told me. “I want this orchard to remain in my family for generations to come. But I know there will come a time that things will look differently.” And he continued to explain that his grandfather had signed off on building US-75 through parts of his property, and soon the city of Anna would be building the Ferguson Extension through a portion of his own.
But it’s not just urban growth that Luscombe thinks about. The last few years of unpredictable and extreme North Texas weather have negatively impacted his harvests. After the big freeze of 2020, 50 of his trees suffered extreme damage, and the harvest that year was the worst on record. He went on to have one of his best harvests in 2021, but after this summer’s extreme drought, he predicts his 2022 harvest will be the worst yet.
“I used to see small bumpy waves,” he said, rolling his hand gently through the middle of the air. “Now I see big crashing waves,” he continued, plunging his hand sharply up and down. But despite the challenges, Luscombe is committed to using mitigation techniques that combine innovative practices with the least amount of pesticides to create a healthy, longstanding orchard.
The cultural significance of the pecan is not lost on the Luscombes. They take great pride in their land and in their product because they know how much the native nut means to the North Texas community. And they’ll continue to sell hundreds of pounds of fresh pecans each autumn for all to enjoy as is or baked in a pie.
But there’s so much more to pecans than pie. James Beard Award-winning writer and author of American Tacos: A History and Guide, José R. Ralat told me days later, “I just love my pecan trees.” And I agreed, as I awkwardly gawked in amazement at the giant beauty shading his front yard in Oak Cliff. Ralat continued, “You don’t really plant pecan trees for yourself to see fruit, you do that for generations to come.” And he seems genuinely grateful that someone had the foresight to do so for him.
Ralat’s connection to pecans is rooted at home. He enjoys the freshly fallen nuts to snack on. But he also likes to roast them with cayenne, candy them and, of course, enjoy them in his mother-in-law’s pecan pie. During the fall harvest season, his neighbors flock to his front yard to fill bags of pecans, yet there is still an ample amount to feed his own family and more. “The tree and its nuts are a reminder of how nature can flourish in an urban environment and foster community, something I hold dear,” Ralat said.
As we continued to share stories about using pecans in creative ways, like grinding the shells into mulch for your garden, he told me about Chef Leo Davila of Stixs & Stone in San Antonio. Davila uses pecans in his house pesto as a way to connect formative memories of snacking on his grandfather’s pecans while waiting for the barbacoa to cook with his professional cooking career.
And although seemingly small, it’s impactful. It is moments like putting pecans in your pesto and choosing to grow pecan trees over grapevines that keep the pecan woven through us in ordinary but worthy ways.
That day in Anna, the Luscombes sent me home with a big bag of pecans from their orchard. And they are the prettiest pecans I’ve ever seen. They’ve been sitting in my crisper drawer, as instructed by Robyn, to preserve their freshness, patiently waiting for their fate. Maybe it’s time that I bake a pecan pie.
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