Fast forward to last night. I went out to dinner with one of the other teachers at my school. She isn't directly part of my program, so I don't know her very well, but she laughs at my jokes, so I figure she's worth getting to know.
Earlier in the day, she had a piece of cake, and she asked me if I learned how to cook as a child. I explained how both of my parents were good cooks and we never had mac 'n cheese from a box or spaghetti sauce from a jar. "In fact," I said. "I used to bake bread with my dad when I was 6."
You could hear the words hovering in the air for a moment.
"You mean with a bread machine?"
"No, like by hand and stuff."
Pause.
"Wow, I think I've just described a Norman Rockwell paining."
You know, I've never thought of my childhood as particularly idyllic. I mean it was a childhood, not the cover of Life magazine. It was rather mundane, but there it was. Hanging in the air.
After a good laugh, she asked if all my family members are good cooks. "Sure," I explained. "Although we all have our specialties. My brother, for example, is good at making candy. Back when we were kids and we had a snow day, my brother and I used to make candy together..."
Again, the words hovered for a moment. She looked at me. And laughed. "You made candy with your brother? Where did you grow up, anyway?"
"Maine. We lived in the middle of nowhere, so there was nowhere to go when we were stuck home in the snow. So we'd make fudge or penuchi or candy apples. My mom would get the strangest phone calls from us, asking what the 'hard crack stage' was. It was all perfectly normal."
The look on her face might have been a hint that it wasn't as normal and mundane as I thought.
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Location:Beijing, China
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