Slice of Life
As a child, “I love you,” sounded foreign on the tongue. I tried to say it once to my dad when I was 12, and he responded with thank you and a pat on the back.
That was the last time I ever tried something like that again.
To say the least, words of affirmation are not a familiar love language to me or my family. Like many other Asian families, although we struggle to translate love into words, it is more carefully shown through actions. When I asked some of my Asian American friends how their parent expressed their affection, the answers ranged from constantly asking if they’re hungry, coming over during finals week to clean their room, driving 3 hours just to drop off some groceries, buying 10x more of the snack they said they liked that one time, to asking again if they’re hungry, just in case they had changed their mind. One almost universal way that my friends mentioned, was seeing a plate of cut and peeled fruit appear in front of them after dinner, while studying, or while watching TV.
In most Asian families, a plate of fruit is a peace offering, a celebration, a labor of love. Painstakingly peeled grapes, perfectly sliced apples, evenly cubed cantaloupe. Whenever I visit my aunt, she would always without fail have some sort of fruit spread ready to share with everyone. After moving back home and quitting my job back late last year, I started to make more frequent trips out to visit her and my nainai (grandma). While my aunt and I already had a good relationship, during the pandemic, plates of fruit brought us that much closer.
An hour after dinner every day like clockwork my aunt would shout, “apple or pear?” And either her or I would go into the garage, which she used like a second fridge, to retrieve the precious cargo. Depending on the season, sometimes it would be mangoes, sometimes kiwis. Everytime, we would choose too many, but we would still finish them all. As she cut up the fruit she would launch into a story; sometimes about work, sometimes about gossip, but my favorite times were when she talked about growing up in China.
My grandma, not much of a talker herself, would also sit and graze at the plate in front of all of us. Occasionally, she would comment on the taste and nod along to the story, until she was tired of our chatter and would retire to bed.
Gathering on opposite sides of the countertop, my aunt would expertly peel the apple skin so it fell like one long ribbon. Slices of the fruit would fall onto the plate shortly after. No cutting board needed. While I munched on a piece, she would describe the street snacks she and her siblings would carefully save up for, like small candied crab apples, when they were kids.
She’d shake the bowl to make room for more fruit as she described their small but cozy apartment in Shanghai. How the walls vibrated from her upstairs neighbors’ place as it was ransacked by the Red Guards during the Cultural Revolution, “the most frightening noises she’s ever heard,” she says.
More sweet slices would fall and she’d talk about my grandfather’s kindness toward the community and those who had less. How my dad, the oldest, bullied her and my uncle into giving him their school snacks (Dad, if you’re reading this, sorry you’ve been outed!) More slices fall onto the plate.
One night, she spoke of how our great grandfather was wrongfully accused of being a bandit by a local official. The cuts into the fruit felt sharper that night. He had rejected the official’s proposal to marry his daughter, an offense punishable by death.
Soon the other fruits would follow suit, and the plate would quickly fill up with an array of shapes and colors. I learned how shy she was in school, and how she didn’t dare to pursue any boy. Romantic relationships were rare back then, as doing so would elicit criticism from the administration.
Top of her class, I hear the excitement and pride in her voice when she mentions the time she got accepted into Yale University for graduate school, the catalyst that brought the rest of my family to America.
These stories, a patchwork of her past, resurfaced simply over sharing simple plates of fruit. And for me, I felt more whole listening to a piece of my family’s history and getting to know my aunt as a person.
As we near the tail end of this long pandemic, I will always be grateful for my aunt during this time, and the nightly ritual she started. These past 15 months have been hard for many reasons, and if listed would cover many pages. But one thing I will never take for granted is the quality time I had with the people I loved, and the nights that ended with apples and pears, sometimes mangos, sometimes kiwis.