2．
After much thought, I came up with a brilliant plan. I worked out a way for Rich to meet my mother and win her over. In fact, I arranged it so my mother would want to cook a meal especially for him.
Rich was not only not Chinese and he was a few years younger than I was. And unfortunately, he looked much younger with his curly red hair, smooth pale skin, and the splash of orange freckles(雀斑) across his nose. He was a bit on the short side, compactly built. In his dark business suits, he looked nice but easily forgettable, which was why I didnˈt notice him the first year we worked together at the firm. But my mother noticed everything.
“So what do you think of Rich？”I finally asked, holding my breath.
She tossed the eggplant in the hot oil, angry hissing sound.“So many spots on his face，”she said.
“They are freckles. Freckles are good luck.”I said a bit too heatedly in trying to raise my voice above the noise of the kitchen.
“Oh？”She said innocently.
“Yes, the more spots the better.”
She considered this a moment and then smiled and spoke in Chinese: “When you were young, you got the chicken pox. So many spots, you had to stay home for ten days. So lucky, you thought.”
I couldnˈt save Rich in the kitchen. And I couldnˈt save him later at the dinner table.
When I offered Rich a fork, he insisted on using the slippery ivory chopsticks. Halfway between his plate and his open mouth, a large chunk of redcooked eggplant fell on his brand new white shirt.
And then he helped himself to big portions of the shrimp and snow peas, not realizing he should have taken only a polite spoonful.
He declined the new greens, the tender and expensive leaves of bean plants. He thought he_was_being_polite_by
_refusing_seconds,_when_he_should_have_followed_my_fatherˈs_example,_who_made_a_big_show_of_taking_small_portions_of_seconds,_thirds_and_even_fourths,_always_saying_he_couldnˈt_resist_another_bite_and_then_groaning_he_was_so_full_he_thought_he_would_burst.
But the worst was when Rich criticized my motherˈs cooking and he didnˈt even know what he had done. As is the Chinese cookˈs custom, my mother always made modest remarks about her own cooking. That night she chose to direct it toward her famous steamed pork and preserved vegetable dish, which she always served with special pride.
“Ai! This dish not salty enough, no flavor，”she complained, after tasting a small bite.
This was our familyˈs cue to eat more and proclaim it the best she had ever made. But before we could do so, Rich said,“You know, all it needs is a little soy sauce.”And he proceeded to pour a riverful of the salty black stuff on the china plate, right before my motherˈs horrified eyes.
And even though I was hoping throughout the dinner that my mother would somehow see Richˈs kindness, his sense of humor and boyish charm. I knew he had failed miserably in her eyes.
Rich obviously had a different opinion on how the evening had gone. When we got home, I was still shuddering, remembering how Rich had firmly shaken both my parentsˈ hands with that same easy familiarity he used with nervous new clients.“Linda, Tim，”he said,“weˈll see you again.”My parentsˈ names are Lindo and Tin Jong, and nobody except a few older family friends ever calls them by their first names.
“What did she say when you told her？”I knew he was referring to our getting married.
“I never had a chance，”I said, which was true. How could I have told my mother I was getting married, when at every possible moment we were alone, she seemed to remark on how pale and ill he looked.
Rich was smiling.“How long does it take to say, Mom, Dad, I am getting married？”
“You donˈt understand. You donˈt understand my mother.”