New Orleans Pecan Pralines

Candy making scares people. I understand why. You're working with sugar at temperatures that can burn you badly, and the margin between perfect pralines and grainy disaster is measured in degrees and seconds. But here's what I tell every student who walks into my kitchen: if you can stir and watch a thermometer, you can make pralines.

My grandmother Evangeline kept a tin of pralines on her counter year-round. She'd wrap them in wax paper and hand them to anyone who stopped by, which in bayou country meant pretty much everyone. Her secret wasn't complicated. She toasted her pecans until they smelled like heaven, she used real butter (never margarine), and she stirred that pot like her life depended on it. I watched her make hundreds of batches before she let me try. When I finally got it right, she just nodded and said, 'Now you know.'

The praline tells you when it's ready. You'll see the mixture go from glossy and liquid to slightly dull and thick. That transformation happens fast, maybe thirty seconds, and when you see it you have to move. Hesitate and the whole batch seizes in the pot. Work quickly and you'll have perfect pralines cooling on your counter, each one a little different because that's how handmade candy should look. At Lagniappe, we make pralines fresh every morning. The smell alone brings people through the door.