Unveiling the Fragile Truths Hidden Within Amanda Ashworth’s Paper Shell
The house was flanked by pecan trees. Mama picked up so many over the years she could’ve built a second house out of them. One with a nutcracker for a key.
Most of the trees dropped thick-shelled pecans, stubborn things that required a nutcracker. But one tree gave paper shells—long, thin, and easily split with a firm squeeze. Mama loved those. So did the squirrels.
Every fall, strangers wandered into the yard to gather them by the bagful. Mama shooed them off. Those pecans were hers.
She was known for pecan pie. She brought them to every family gathering, always made with pecans from the yard. I never ate them as a child, but I sat with her and helped shell them.
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