英语情感故事：一盘豌豆

My grandfather died when I was a small boy, and my grandmother started staying with us for about six months every year. She lived in a room that doubled as my father's office, which we referred to as "the back room." She carried with her a powerful aroma（芳香）. I don't know what kind of perfume she used, but it was the double-barreled, ninety-proof, knockdown, render-the-victim-unconscious, moose-killing variety. She kept it in a huge atomizer（喷雾器） and applied¹ it frequently and liberally. It was almost impossible to go into her room and remain breathing for any length of time. When she would leave the house to go spend six months with my Aunt Lillian, my mother and sisters would throw open all the windows, strip the bed, and take out the curtains and rugs. Then they would spend several days washing and airing things out, trying frantically² to make the pungent³ odor（刺激气味） go away. 

 

This, then, was my grandmother at the time of the infamous⁴ pea incident. 

 

It took place at the Biltmore Hotel, which, to my eight-year-old mind, was just about the fancies place to eat in all of Providence⁵. My grandmother, my mother, and I were having lunch after a morning spent shopping. I grandly ordered a salisbury steak, confident in the knowledge that beneath that fancy name was a good old hamburger with gravy⁶. When brought to the table, it was accompanied by a plate of peas. I do not like peas now. I did not like peas then. I have always hated peas. It is a complete mystery to me why anyone would voluntarily eat peas. I did not eat them at home. I did not eat them at restaurants. And I certainly was not about to eat them now. "Eat your peas," my grandmother said. 

 

"Mother," said my mother in her warning voice. "He doesn't like peas. Leave him alone." 

 

My grandmother did not reply, but there was a glint in her eye and a grim set to her jaw⁷ that signaled she was not going to be thwarted⁸. She leaned in my direction, looked me in the eye, and uttered the fateful words that changed my life: "I'll pay you five dollars if you eat those peas." 

 

I had absolutely no idea of the impending⁹ doom¹⁰. I only knew that five dollars was an enormous, nearly unimaginable amount of money, and as awful as peas were, only one plate of them stood between me and the possession of that five dollars. I began to force the wretched things down my throat. 

 

My mother was livid. My grandmother had that self-satisfied look of someone who has thrown down an unbeatable trump¹¹ card. "I can do what I want, Ellen, and you can't stop me." My mother glared at her mother. She glared at me. No one can glare like my mother. If there were a glaring Olympics, she would undoubtedly¹² win the gold medal. 

 

I, of course, kept shoving peas down my throat. The glares made me nervous, and every single pea made me want to throw up, but the magical image of that five dollars floated before me, and I finally gagged down every last one of them. My grandmother handed me the five dollars with a flourish. My mother continued to glare in silence. And the episode ended. Or so I thought. 

 

My grandmother left for Aunt Lillian's a few weeks later. That night, at dinner, my mother served two of my all-time favorite foods, meatloaf and mashed¹³ potatoes. Along with them came a big, steaming bowl of peas. She offered me some peas, and I, in the very last moments of my innocent youth, declined. My mother fixed¹⁴ me with a cold eye as she heaped a huge pile of peas onto my plate. Then came the words that were to haunt me for years. 

 

"You ate them for money," she said. "You can eat them for love." 

 

Oh, despair! Oh, devastation¹⁵! Now, too late, came the dawning realization¹⁶ that I had unwittingly damned myself to a hell from which there was no escape. 

 

"You ate them for money. You can eat them for love." 

 

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