With the pastel blue peeler—its slightly rusted metal speckled with black, remnants of the countless fruits and vegetables eaten, cooked, and shared by my mom and grandma—I shaved the ombrés of scarlet red and golden yellow off seemingly innumerable apples. The precise, crisp peels revealed a smooth, pale body, releasing pleasant scents. Once I found out that an hour had passed, I rushed to peel the rest of the apples—now covered in harsh ridges and lingering spots of red. When the apples were all peeled, I began to slice. The kitchen knife had a slightly brittle blade and loose handle from constant use by my mom and grandma. Moving my right hand forward and down with the knife, I entered a repetitive process of cutting half-inch slices over and over until another hour passed. I finally let go of the knife, the feeling of my hand returning only to bring a sharp cramp to my palm by the thumb and index finger. The sizeable metal bowl before me brimmed with slices of apples. My legs and feet needed to be constantly shifted so the pain only lasted a few seconds. It was one of those dewy mornings in my quiet yet full home.

—

My earliest memory revolving around apples—the first time I realized, “these are really good”—was at McDonald’s. I was so young that my parents ordered a Happy Meal for me. Before I opened the toy in the meal, I rubbed my fingers around the clear plastic bag of apples. The colorful print on the bag was a curious thing, showcasing an eccentric man with red hair, a white-painted face, overlined red lips, and a yellow suit. The skin of the apple slices was vibrant red, the smoothness of which I tried to feel through the plastic. I stretched the bag as wide as possible to open it, reached in for the smoothest piece that caught my eye, and crunched into it only halfway—a habit to see if the middle looked different from the outside. Bites of sweetness. Cool, crisp, juicy.

Another time, my aunt surprised me with McDonald’s. While I was hoping for the bag of apples, I instead found a warm cardboard container in the shape of a circular rectangle. I opened it to uncover a mysterious fried pastry. To see what exactly this pastry was, I took a bite. Lush sweetness oozed into my mouth. Apple pie.

—

I made apple pie. The pecan pie I made afterward did not take nearly as much time. The chef in my high school culinary class recently showed us how to make pies, although I was only assigned to preparing the fillings. I wanted to apply what I learned in class to real life, and also be the most impressive in the family…

I held on dearly to the two pies as I walked down my street to my aunt’s home. Our annual Thanksgiving dinner was the rare time of the year when my entire extended family came together, where I could expect to see my distant cousins with whom I maintained contact primarily online. When I presented my pies, impressive for a 14-year old (especially in a family where the mothers cooked and the daughters did not), I refrained from disclosing that I did not make the pie crust from scratch—it was actually frozen Pillsbury crust I forgot to defrost and hurriedly warmed up. All that mattered was that I made the fillings myself. My parents showed off my creation, my uncles and aunts showered me with exaggerated compliments, and my cousins stared at the pies and (I imagined) drooled with their intense sweet tooths. When we finished the savory dishes, the younglings in the family devoured the apple pie while the adults ate some of the pecan pie. I went home with leftovers from the pecan pie but nothing from the apple pie. Maybe that was a good thing.

—

I stopped eating whole apples after the second grade, after chipping my right front tooth. It was a long time before I touched apples again—until middle school, when my grandma and mom prepared apple slices to divert me from unhealthy sweets. They served me a bowl of them, whose sweet taste I can still recall on my tongue. After finishing the bowl, I thanked them and laid in bed watching TV.

Almost in an instant, my throat burnt with itchiness. Bumps surfaced around my mouth and, with my own curiosity itching, a slight touch upon them felt hot and tender. It was an odd event, but I did not pay much mind to it.

Later on, when I ate shrimp in my mom’s dish of noodles, I felt the same experience afterward. Concern sunk in me. Am I allergic?

—

I made apple pie for the next Thanksgiving. This time, I invested in a Starfrit Electric Rotato Express, an appliance where I could spin an apple against a peeler and remove the skin in 30 seconds. While I still put myself through the painful process of slicing the apples, preparing the filling took much less time. Though a year had passed, I was still the only teenager in my entire family who prepared food.

—

My grandma and mom kept serving me apple slices, and I kept eating them. When I eventually tired of enduring the irritation, I confided in my mom about my allergic reactions. Her eyes widened as she uttered, “Trời dất ơi” (Oh my god).

The next day, she served me a bowl of apple slices. She removed the skin and soaked the apple slices in salt, hoping I could still enjoy apples with this “cleaning” method. I held a soaked apple slice to the tip of my tongue, tasting the salty water droplets. A crunchy bite. Salty at first, but then sweet. Only a little reaction afterward.

My mom later wanted me to try her own “apples.” Arriving home from middle school, she gestured for me to quickly follow her. By our stove, there was a small glass cup to place incense sticks in. Next to the cup was a small plate of China filled with big, green-yellow, apple-shaped pears. “Asian pears,” my mom pointed out, remarking that she bought them freshly imported at a local market. After using the apple pears for prayer, she, as always, served me a bowl of slices. A soft yet crisp bite. Perfectly sweet.

—

The next Thanksgiving, my dad served me a full plate with traditional dishes—turkey, mashed potatoes, greens. I ate with my brother, mom, dad, and grandma. No large gathering was wise during the pandemic.

While I cooked and baked all throughout the pandemic, I did not think to make apple pie. It was too much for just me and my brother to eat. I no longer gave something that was always given to me: the sweetness of apples.

—

I avoid eating apples now—though I will gladly accept a bowl of slices from my mom. Yet, I eagerly eat apple pie, apple strudels, apple turnovers, apple crisp, apple cider donuts, many things apple. Whether naturally or artificially flavored, they are the only means for me to taste its sweetness without its consequences. Though the women in my family who shaped my life would not know this, I savor a sweetness I cannot have in peace because of them, because I am thankful that they always thought to surround me in sweetness.