On a hot summer day in Kolkata, India, my mother and I started baking an apple pie. I wanted to give my mother the taste of the quintessential American dessert. (I had lived in America for seven long years before I returned to my native India.)

On this weekend, I had in my hand a recipe picked from the Internet. I measured two and 1/4 cups of flour, dropped 200 gm (or 1 cup) of butter into it, and kept a bowl of iced water handy. I asked my mother to mix, for I had never kneaded dough, nor had I ever rolled it. By the time she started cutting in the fat with her fingers, it had become soft from the heat of our kitchen, which has never known air-conditioning. As she gingerly worked her way through, I stood by, the recipe secure in my hand. Soon, though, my wife called out from upstairs in our duplex. She needed help with our baby, who had thrown up all over herself and her mother.

 

I ran upstairs, leaving my mother to prepare her first pie pastry. When I returned, she had neatly wrapped two balls of dough in cling plastic. I put them in the refrigerator. So far so good.

About 30 minutes later, out came the mounds of pastry dough, ready to be rolled. My mother started with a slim rolling pin, the only one available in our kitchen – an old, sinewy workhorse that has produced a million “rotis” for dinner. The more she tried, though, the harder the ordeal became. The dough started breaking. My wife joined us. She pronounced the dough flawed -- the fat had become too soft. We decided to ball up the dough again and replace it in the refrigerator.

By that time, though, I had prepared the apples, four large red ones. After peeling, coring and slicing, and sprinkling them with lime juice (lemon is hard to get in India), I'd tossed them with sugar, cornstarch and a spice mixture of cinnamon and nutmeg, all measured to perfection. We had no option but to store the apple too in the refrigerator until the next day.

The next day, our attempts resumed. The dough had become hard from its long slumber in the refrigerator. My mother pressed the rolling pin harder and harder, sweat trickling down her brow. She floured it, giving it a quick twist each time she rolled.

Oh, another “accident” had occurred -- the Pyrex pie dish my wife had bought was too large (it was 10-inch) for my toaster-oven. So, we would have to use a square roasting pan, which is smaller, but deeper. So, this pie would clearly be a squat and muscular guy.

 

Meanwhile, I looked with dismay at the apple: it had become syrupy from overnight marination. I knew I would have to use a slotted spoon to place the apple in the pie crust.

The crust, by now, was beginning to take shape, thanks to my wife, who volunteered again. The base was ready, and I began to regain hope. The top crust was rolled out, too. I evenly put the apple slices, fragrant with cinnamon and nutmeg, in the shell. My wife pierced the “lid” with slits.

Then we cut out mango shapes from the dough trimmings with a small wooden “sandesh” (a Bengali confection) mould to decorate the pie top.

Into the oven the square pie “dish” went. Unwilling to toss away the remaining trimmings, my wife cut some more mango shapes, which I placed on aluminum foil, drizzled with the apple syrup and arrayed around the pie dish.

Soon, in the hot summer morning, the heavenly aroma of butter, apple, cinnamon and nutmeg baking in the dough filled our house. From our balcony (our kitchen is on the first floor), my wife inhaled and rejoiced, filled with anticipation. This pie had seen sweat and tears; it was beginning to reward them.

Unable to wait longer, I pulled open the oven door to take a peek. I spied the tiny mango pastries baking and the big pie baking, too, blissfully exuding bubbling juices. I took out a mango biscuit, crisp and hot, in a pool of syrup, now half-dried. I dipped a finger to lick it. Ouch! I burnt my finger.

In a moment, it grew a blister, but it was a pleasant pain. I ate the biscuit, crunchy and savory (I had used regular, salted butter).

That night, I cut slices of the pie for each family member and tried whipping some heavy cream for topping. But the cream wouldn’t foam; instead, it started curdling and watering. Even in the refrigerator, it had gone sour, thanks to the heat of the Indian summer.

I tossed away the cream. It would have to be just apple pie all the way, nothing else. My mother tasted the first piece. She rolled her eyes and said yummy in Bengali language. The pie was pure pleasure.

The next night, the desert was a greater delight. For, we ate apple pie a la mode. In the heat of May, the vanilla ice-cream, topped with a few drops of the apple syrup, now reduced over fire, was a cool relief to us. But, the real star lay beneath. The pie had battled a summer in India, and won.

For my mother, it was an education. “There are so many different kinds of food in the world,” she said, eating the last mouthful. “If we serve this to [Indian] guests, they will love it, for this is exotic!”

read about Angshuman's wonderful mom click here  and read part two - how Mom learned about tacos click here

try a recipe for melting pot apple pie

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