I grew up with pecan trees in Oklahoma, picking them from the backyards of several different houses where I lived. It was just standard on a fall day to take a long, slow, walk - picking and eating as you went. On farmland in Southern Georgia though, the pecan groves stretch on, and on, and on. I love their perfect rows, the shape that the pecan shells make hanging open on each branch, silhouetted against the sunset, and the damp earth where the fallen lay, waiting to be cracked open. I have a huge bag sitting in my kitchen from this day, longing to be shelled and baked into something sweet. Although I doubt many make it into a recipe. It's more likely they will first make it into my mouth.