I joke that I don’t have a sweet tooth – that I’ve never been able to eat a whole block of Cadbury’s chocolate, or down a pint of ice-cream in one sitting. But I have, on many occasions, eaten huge punnets of strawberries by popping them into my mouth like a child with a bucket full of lollies, and downed giant R2E2 mangoes in one go.
I think this is, in part, because I grew up in a household where the concept of dessert after dinner was quite foreign. I knew other families had dessert as a whole separate course, and we had ice-creams and frozen yoghurt in the freezer, as well as Tim Tams and other assorted chocolates in the fridge, but those were usually reserved for weekends, and only as special treats.
There were, of course, times where I wished for cake or ice-cream like everyone else. It wasn’t the biggest bone of contention in our family, but it was something else that made me feel just that little bit different.
Instead of the sort of dessert I saw in movies – or, if you like, a more conventional Western dessert – we had fruit. It’s probably one of the reasons I have such an abiding love for fruit as an adult. The “fruit course” didn’t come straight after dinner – dinner needed to settle, much like we were told food needed to settle before we went swimming.
Fruit came anywhere between half an hour and an hour after dinner, depending on how much washing up Dad had to do; like many Chinese families, we didn’t have a dishwasher, so Dad cleaned (and still cleans) everything by hand. But after this chore was done, he’d move onto washing and preparing the fruit.
The fruit were always treated with an inordinate amount of care
The type of fruit we got was dependent on the season, but it was clear they were always treated with an inordinate amount of care. Apples, pears and mangoes were peeled and neatly sliced, strawberries would have their tops chopped off, guava and papaya deseeded and carefully cut into appropriately sized sections. We’d get a bowl and a fork each, and Dad would always make sure we all had enough before he started eating his portion.
When I was younger, we’d have our bowls of fruit while sitting in front of the TV. But as I got older, I spent more and more of my time after dinner in the study, writing assignments or cramming for exams. During these times, Dad would knock softly on the door before coming in, even though the door was always ajar, before putting my bowl of fruit next to my laptop or my notebook. Sometimes, he’d duck back in and scoop up my empty bowl so I wouldn’t be distracted from the task I had at hand.
My relationship with my parents became increasingly fractured until I moved out, but the routine of dinner and fruit remained the same. It persists to this day, an evening ritual of sorts – the only modification being I might help myself to a morsel or two of fruit while Dad’s still doing the dishes.
Nevertheless, Dad still chops and slices our fruit with firm precision while Mum and I watch the latest episode of Masterchef, presenting them in the same bowls I’d used as a kid. Fruit has also become an integral part of the ritual that is leaving my parents’ house, as they try to push bags full of whatever fruit they’d most recently bought at the markets onto me – that is, if I haven’t already raided one of their three fridges and decided what I want to take home.
We show each other our love through actions instead of words
It’s extremely rare for members of a Chinese family to say they love each other – we show each other our love through actions instead of words.
It’s taken a while for me to internalise and understand this – sometimes, even as an adult, it can still be difficult. My partner and I have been talking about love languages recently, and it turns out fruit could probably be described as one of my Dad’s love languages. He mightn’t understand the impropriety of showing up at my house unannounced with a huge basket of mulberries and some unsolicited advice, but I can see that he is really trying in his own way.
Fruit has connected us in new ways, too. He grew up on a farm, and I’ve recently gotten into growing my own fruit and vegetables, so now we compare the size and quantity of our produce. He’s very proud of the huge guavas he’s cultivated (they’re very tasty), and I send him photos of the mandarins and lemons I’ve managed to coax into existence. It might be unconventional, but it’s our own special (and delicious) way of telling each other we care about one another.
