Ask a group of Mississippians how to make a proper pecan pie and you will start an argument that may outlast the meal. Corn syrup or cane? Bourbon or none? Chocolate, which some regard as an abomination and others as an improvement? The debates are conducted with a seriousness that outsiders find baffling and locals find entirely appropriate.

The pie occupies a specific place in the state's culinary self-image, tied to the pecan trees that shade old yards and drop their harvest each fall. To make one is to participate in a tradition, and traditions invite orthodoxy.

The purists tend toward simplicity: good pecans, a custard that sets but does not turn to candy, a crust made by hand. Their complaint against modern versions is that sweetness has been allowed to bully everything else off the plate. "You should taste the pecan," one baker said. "Not just the sugar."

The debates are, of course, part of the pleasure. A food worth arguing about is a food that matters, and few matter more here than this one. The pie is a dessert, but it is also a text, endlessly interpreted, and never quite settled.