🥭🥧

If you somehow missed my cross platform content spam, I made a Mango Pie yesterday. I took the first tiny bite while I was on a video call with a friend, and in describing it I started crying. I wanted to write more about why.





In order to understand why I cried eating the Mango Pie, you first need to understand Indian people and our relationship to mangos. Mangos, of which Alphonso is the king, are the perfect relief after a hot summer day. While mangos are perfect on their own, they're also perfect in many other forms - Aamras (mango pulp) with Puri, My mom's mango milkshake, Naturals Malai ice cream with fresh mango pieces, Mango lime pickle - just to name a few. But beyond just being tasty and perfect, Mangos hold a special place in our heart.



Hari Kondabolu puts it better than I could in his Netflix special (you have to click through to watch the video):



He's not exaggerating about parents telling their kids stories about the mangos, by the way. I have a story exactly like that from my mom and her siblings, who grew up in Goa with a mango tree in their yard. The story is that one day when they were kids, they were all sitting at lunch, and they heard a thud in the yard which meant a ripe mango had fallen. And then they all ran out to get it. Then they ate it. That's it that's the story. I've heard it dozens, maybe hundreds of times.



When I was growing up, Alphonso season was the best season. Somewhere between April and June, it coincided with school summer break. I have a particularly vivid memory of standing by our apartment kitchen sink in the hot summer while my mom cut chilled Alphonso mangos and my sister and I quickly scarfed them down. We've done this dozens, maybe hundreds of times over the years, but I can't remember having an Alphonso mango since 2013, the year I moved to the US. I haven't been back home in Alphonso season since.



That brings me to the pie. A month ago, I saw a New York Times article by chef & author of Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat, Samin Nosrat. The article was titled A Very American Mango Pie, Inspired by Indian Aunties, which if you know me you know is clickbait designed for me specifically. So I clicked, and was not disappointed. In the article, Samin writes about a mango pie by the mother of Hrishikesh Hirway, former host of excellent podcast Song Exploder. Mango Pie is Mrs. Hirway's very desi contribution to American Thanksgiving. I won't retell the story, because the article does it better than I ever could, so you should take a second and go read it. A part of the story completely broke my heart.

My mom has a severe form of Parkinson’s, and she can’t cook anymore. So the pie torch has been passed to me, my sister and my dad. But whenever I make it, it still falls short of the memory of my mom’s perfect version.

I decided I had to make the pie - not just because it sounded delicious - but because of the heartfelt memory behind it. The recipe can be found here.



This Sunday, I had plans to watch Camp Rock with my best friend Jackie, as one does. Now, to set the scene we need to go on another little tangent. I've had a rougher than usual past few weeks. I don't want to get into it, and everything and everyone is fine, but let's just say that I had been much more stressed than usual and had been crying a fair amount. I feel back to normal now, but to be honest it was pretty rough.



On Saturday, she tagged me in a Tweet from someone else about making The Pie, and I thought - we have to make the pie. And so we did. I bought the Alphonso pulp at an Indian store (Jai Hind if you need it) and the rest of the ingredients at the nearby Safeway. I went over to Jackie's and we had a lowkey afternoon making the pie and watching Camp Rock 2. Being the significantly better cook, she did most of the real work, meanwhile I cut my fingers in a really dumb way while doing it, but it was nothing major and will be fully healed soon.



The last part of the pie recipe requires 5 or more hours of chilling it. So we put it in her fridge and then went to hot pot with some other friends. When we got back it was about 90m till the 5 hour mark. The recipe makes 2 pies, 1 for each of us, so I decided to take my pie home and continue chilling it there. That Lyft ride was a stressful 10 minutes. I continued chilling the pie at home.



I got impatient, and ended up trying it a bit early. I had the tiniest piece, and I was instantly and completely overwhelmed. I was hit with a wave of nostalgia so strong, I didn't even know it was possible. The pie transported me to standing next to the sink, with my sister and parents, as we cut and eat chilled mangos. It might sound dramatic, but even typing that makes me tear up. I was talking to a friend, and in describing the pie and the feeling I began to cry. My parents, sister and I have all lived in 4 different cities for a few years now, and haven't lived in the same house for over 7 years, which is also about as long since I last had an Alphonso mango at home. The pie took me back to that very specific moment and memory, and I like to think that it's exactly what Mrs. Hirway stumbled upon - or was trying to recreate.



After my tiny taste, I put the pie back to chill longer. A couple friends dropped by to try it, my roommate had a slice. I brought it to work the next day and invited some of my favorite coworkers to taste it. I enjoyed watching people react as they had that first bite - some who have had Alphonsos and some who haven't. I took the last remainder of the pie to my uncle's house for dinner today, and my uncle, aunt, cousins and I sat around the table and ate the chilled pie, eyes lighting up, forks being licked for the last bit of pie filling, content and full - not unlike standing around the kitchen sink with my parents and sister, eating chilled pieces of alphonso mangos in the Bombay summer.

#1 jackie (0)

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