As a kid, the first English word we learnt was probably 'apple' because 'A is for apple.' Not in France.
"C'est un pomme." My mom would teach me, holding up a fruit in her palm, bright and red. Smooth shiny skin, and it made a crunchy sound when I sank my teeth into it. Sweet. But I never really liked fruits.
"Now there is another kind of pomme. It is hidden in the ground."
"Why?" the Faye of 4-years old asked.
"Because... It did not have pretty skin as un pomme, it isn't as popular. In fact, it is dull brown in color and it has pitted skin. Since pomme terre always hides in the ground and prefers not to come out, it is usually dirty. That makes people like it even less.
However, the pomme terre is actually quite an amazing fruit. Or vegetable. I would say it is a vegetable, so you might like it. Regardless how it looks on the outside, how unappealing and dirty, on the inside it is very delicious. And it can be cooked in many ways. You had it before, in fact you had it last week and you absolutely loved it."
"I did? But I don't remember eating such an ugly fruit. Or vegetable."
"Always look on the inside, Faye. Find the beauty within. Charm can be deceptive, beauty fleeting. And I think..." my mom grinned at me, "that my little girl is beautiful inside out."
My mother used to have small chats with me when I grew up with her. We left France for Kuala Lumpur when I was 7 years old. I have no memories of my father. Sometime, there were occasional dreams or nightmares, with words like "Je suis desole... Je suis desole... Je t'aime..."
Growing up now, I know I don't exactly have a pretty face. Typical Asian Chinese. Features inherited from mom. Single eye lids, small eyes, yellow skin and a big round nose. I didn't like to look in the mirror and spend more time than necessary looking at my face. I can totally relate to a pomme terre. And true enough, I do like potatoes.
There was a day, a terrible one, I came home from school. I scored a 'C' in arts. I was trying to draw an octopus in the ocean. To add insult to injury, another kid laughed that it looked like a detached mop floating in an abyss of mess. He snatched the drawing block from me and started a wave of laughter in the class. Fuming and hurt, I swore that I will never speak to him again.
I ran upstairs, into my room and locked myself, and unleashed the torrential tears that I was holding back at school.
My mom, heard the stomping of my feet and the loud bang and click of the door, ran up from the kitchen shouting "Faye! Faye ? What's wrong? .... Faye?!" She knocked on my door, the concern in her voice was evident.
Of course, I never meant to shut her out of my life. The door locking was to add on drama so mom should know I was very upset indeed. I unlocked the door and allowed her to dash into the room and hugged me, while I spilt, in between sobs, the story of my day.
"I would never be good at anything..." I ended.
"Aww... that's bullshit." She said. Yes, that was what she said to me and I learnt fast. Mom took my artwork which was, by then, rather crumpled up, held it at length and studied it. "You've got an amazing imagination. A white octopus in a purple colored ocean... and qu'est-ce que c'est? Is it a jellyfish? " pointing to a yellow garb of poorly defined margin.
"It's a plastic bag..." I replied.
"Aw... darling." She chuckled. "Look at me." She knelt down to the level of my height and we saw each other eye to eye. She grabbed my shoulders and gave me a motherly smile that made me truly believe that everything was going to be alright.
"Faye... Never doubt yourself okay. Your name Faye, in French, means..."
"Believe... I know, mom" I finished her sentence.
"C'est vrai. That's right. So you gotta believe in yourself and the one in you. For as a man thinks in his heart, so is he. It's OK to fail sometimes. Celebrate failures. " Deep phrases for a kid. My mom is a smart woman. "And in Chinese, Faye means..."
"Fly high... I know, mom" I did it again.
My mom looked at me proudly. She had always been there for me. However times changed, I will grow up and unknown at that point of time, I did shut her out of a few chapters of my life.
"I'm going to frame this piece of work." She took the drawing paper and tried to iron it a little flatter with the palm of her hand. Suddenly there was a sharp odour of burnt pot.
"Oh shit, the soup!" mom exclaimed. We ran downstairs, greeted by the smell of ash and saw smoke coming out of the kitchen. "Oh no, oh no!" Mom quickly doused the blacken pot with cold water and switched off the gas.
As things sizzled to a calm, mom emptied the burnt ingredients into the sink and held up the pot. There was a hole at the base of the pot. "Holey smoke, pun intended."
She peered through the hole, and we caught each other's eyes. And suddenly we broke into hysterical laughter. Seemed like we were going to have KFC for dinner. Not a terrible day after all.