A Plate of Peas
一盤豌豆
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. 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 and applied 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 frantically to make the pungent odor go away.
在我還是個(gè)小孩的時(shí)候,我的外公去世了。自那以后,外婆每年里有 6 個(gè)月跟著我們過。她 的房間是我父親辦公室的兩倍大,被我們稱作“里屋” 。她身上總帶著濃郁的香氣;我不知道 她用的是哪種香水,但這種香水的味道非常地強(qiáng)烈,刺鼻、令人窒息,簡(jiǎn)直能把人熏暈,把 駝鹿熏死。外婆將它裝在一個(gè)巨大的噴瓶里,并經(jīng)常頻繁地噴灑。要走進(jìn)她的房間,保持正 常呼吸幾乎是不可能的。當(dāng)她離開去莉蓮姨媽家住另外 6 個(gè)月的時(shí)候,媽媽和姐姐們總會(huì)迫 不及待地打開所有的窗戶、拆開被子、取下窗簾和地毯。接著的幾天里,她們就一直在洗東 西、晾東西,傾盡全力地趨散那種刺鼻的氣味。
This, then, was my grandmother at the time of the infamous pea incident.
就在奶奶住在我們家時(shí)發(fā)生了豌豆事件,一件讓我恥辱的事。
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 Providence. 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 gravy. When brought to the table, it was accompanied by a plate of peas.
事情發(fā)生在比爾特摩飯店。在當(dāng)時(shí)年僅 8 歲的我的眼里,那是全普羅維登斯最好的飯店了。 一天,外婆、媽媽和我逛了一個(gè)上午的街,然后走進(jìn)比爾特摩飯店吃午飯。我相當(dāng)鄭重地點(diǎn) 了一道索里茲伯里牛排,想當(dāng)然地認(rèn)為在那考究的菜名后面是盤美味可口的牛排,上面還淋 著肉汁的那種。牛排被端上桌時(shí),還伴著一盤豌豆。
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.
我不喜歡吃豌豆,當(dāng)時(shí)也不喜歡。我從來都討厭吃豌豆。我真是不理解為什么有人會(huì)愿意去 吃豌豆。在家我不會(huì)吃,在餐館我也不會(huì)吃,當(dāng)時(shí)我也不準(zhǔn)備吃。
"Eat your peas," my grandmother said.
“把豌豆吃了。 ”外婆說。
"Mother," said my mother in her warning voice. "He doesn't like peas. Leave him alone."
“媽, ”母親提醒外婆說, “他不喜歡吃豌豆,您就隨他吧! ”
My grandmother did not reply, but there was a glint in her eye and a grim set to her jaw that signaled she was not going to be thwarted. 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."
外婆沒有回答,但她眼睛冒光,下巴僵直,流露出一副不甘心挫敗的神情。她向我靠過來, 盯著我的眼睛,說了一句改變我一生的話: “你吃掉那些豌豆的話,我就給你 5美元。 ”
I had absolutely no idea of the impending doom. 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.
我對(duì)即將發(fā)生的厄運(yùn)一無所知,我只知道 5 美元是筆很大的一筆財(cái)富,可一盤豌豆成了攔路虎。盡管豌豆很難吃,可為了拿到 5美金,我還是強(qiáng)迫自己往下咽。
My mother was livid. My grandmother had that self-satisfied look of someone who has thrown down an unbeatable trump 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 undoubtedly win the gold medal.
我母親臉色鐵青,而外婆卻是一臉的得意洋洋,就像剛在牌桌上甩出殺手锏一樣, “只要我想 要做的,我就能做到。埃倫,你是阻止不了我的。 ”我母親生氣地瞪著自己的母親,也瞪著我。 沒有人可以像我母親那樣瞪著眼睛,如果有個(gè)瞪眼奧林匹克比賽的話,她一定能拿金牌回來。
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.
當(dāng)然了,當(dāng)時(shí)我還在往自己喉嚨塞豌豆。憤怒的目光讓我緊張,每顆豆子都讓我想吐,可 5 美元那美妙的影子一直在我眼前飄浮。終于,我咽下了最后一顆豆子。外婆很夸張地遞給我 5 美元,母親還在沉默地怒視著??偹愀嬉欢温淞?!至少當(dāng)時(shí)我是那么認(rèn)為的。
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 mashed 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 fixed 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.
幾周后,外婆去了莉蓮姨媽家。一天晚飯時(shí),母親做了兩道我一直最喜歡吃的菜——肉餅和 土豆泥。和它們一起的,還有一大碗熱氣騰騰的豌豆。她給了我一些,而我拒絕了,那也正 是我純真時(shí)代終結(jié)的一刻。母親冷冰冰地看著我,一邊向我的盤子里加了一大堆的豌豆。而 后從她口里說出的話,縈繞在我心里,好多年都沒有散去。
"You ate them for money," she said. "You can eat them for love."
“你可以為錢吃了它們, ”她說, “你就可以為愛吃了它們。 ”
Oh, despair! Oh, devastation! Now, too late, came the dawning realization that I had unwittingly damned myself to a hell from which there was no escape.
哦,天哪!哦,太慘了!事到如今,我才頓悟:不知不覺中,我已將自己推進(jìn)萬劫不復(fù)的地獄,但一切為時(shí)已晚。
"You ate them for money. You can eat them for love."
“你可以為錢吃了它們,就可以為愛吃了它們。 ”
What possible argument could I muster against that? There was none. Did I eat the peas? You bet I did. I ate them that day and every other time they were served thereafter. The five dollars were quickly spent. My grandmother passed away a few years later. But the legacy of the peas lived on, as it lives on to this day. If I so much as curl my lip when they are served (because, after all, I still hate the horrid little things), my mother repeats the dreaded words one more time: "You ate them for money," she says. "You can eat them for love."
我能有什么樣的理由來反駁呢?沒有!我無話可說。那后來我吃了沒有呢?當(dāng)然,我吃了。 在那一晚,我吃了。之后每次上豌豆的時(shí)候,我都吃了。5美元很快就被花掉了,外婆也在幾 年后過世,而豌豆事件的影響卻一直還在,直到如今。如果我看到豌豆就撅嘴的話(因?yàn)椋?無論如何,我仍然憎惡這些討厭的小東西) ,母親就會(huì)又一次重復(fù)那令我畏懼的話: “你可以 為錢吃了它們, ”她說, “就可以為愛吃了它們。 ”
A Plate of Peas
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. 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 and applied 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 frantically to make the pungent odor go away.
This, then, was my grandmother at the time of the infamous 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 Providence. 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 gravy. 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 jaw that signaled she was not going to be thwarted. 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 impending doom. 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 trump 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 undoubtedly 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 mashed 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 fixed 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, devastation! Now, too late, came the dawning realization 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."
What possible argument could I muster against that? There was none. Did I eat the peas? You bet I did. I ate them that day and every other time they were served thereafter. The five dollars were quickly spent. My grandmother passed away a few years later. But the legacy of the peas lived on, as it lives on to this day. If I so much as curl my lip when they are served (because, after all, I still hate the horrid little things), my mother repeats the dreaded words one more time: "You ate them for money," she says. "You can eat them for love."
一盤豌豆
在我還是個(gè)小孩的時(shí)候,我的外公去世了。自那以后,外婆每年里有 6 個(gè)月跟著我們過。她 的房間是我父親辦公室的兩倍大,被我們稱作“里屋” 。她身上總帶著濃郁的香氣;我不知道 她用的是哪種香水,但這種香水的味道非常地強(qiáng)烈,刺鼻、令人窒息,簡(jiǎn)直能把人熏暈,把 駝鹿熏死。外婆將它裝在一個(gè)巨大的噴瓶里,并經(jīng)常頻繁地噴灑。要走進(jìn)她的房間,保持正 常呼吸幾乎是不可能的。當(dāng)她離開去莉蓮姨媽家住另外 6 個(gè)月的時(shí)候,媽媽和姐姐們總會(huì)迫 不及待地打開所有的窗戶、拆開被子、取下窗簾和地毯。接著的幾天里,她們就一直在洗東 西、晾東西,傾盡全力地趨散那種刺鼻的氣味。
就在奶奶住在我們家時(shí)發(fā)生了豌豆事件,一件讓我恥辱的事。
事情發(fā)生在比爾特摩飯店。在當(dāng)時(shí)年僅 8 歲的我的眼里,那是全普羅維登斯最好的飯店了。 一天,外婆、媽媽和我逛了一個(gè)上午的街,然后走進(jìn)比爾特摩飯店吃午飯。我相當(dāng)鄭重地點(diǎn) 了一道索里茲伯里牛排,想當(dāng)然地認(rèn)為在那考究的菜名后面是盤美味可口的牛排,上面還淋 著肉汁的那種。牛排被端上桌時(shí),還伴著一盤豌豆。
我不喜歡吃豌豆,當(dāng)時(shí)也不喜歡。我從來都討厭吃豌豆。我真是不理解為什么有人會(huì)愿意去 吃豌豆。在家我不會(huì)吃,在餐館我也不會(huì)吃,當(dāng)時(shí)我也不準(zhǔn)備吃。
“把豌豆吃了。 ”外婆說。
“媽, ”母親提醒外婆說, “他不喜歡吃豌豆,您就隨他吧! ”
外婆沒有回答,但她眼睛冒光,下巴僵直,流露出一副不甘心挫敗的神情。她向我靠過來, 盯著我的眼睛,說了一句改變我一生的話: “你吃掉那些豌豆的話,我就給你 5美元。 ”
我對(duì)即將發(fā)生的厄運(yùn)一無所知,我只知道 5 美元是筆很大的一筆財(cái)富,可一盤豌豆成了攔路虎。盡管豌豆很難吃,可為了拿到 5美金,我還是強(qiáng)迫自己往下咽。
我母親臉色鐵青,而外婆卻是一臉的得意洋洋,就像剛在牌桌上甩出殺手锏一樣, “只要我想 要做的,我就能做到。埃倫,你是阻止不了我的。 ”我母親生氣地瞪著自己的母親,也瞪著我。 沒有人可以像我母親那樣瞪著眼睛,如果有個(gè)瞪眼奧林匹克比賽的話,她一定能拿金牌回來。
當(dāng)然了,當(dāng)時(shí)我還在往自己喉嚨塞豌豆。憤怒的目光讓我緊張,每顆豆子都讓我想吐,可 5 美元那美妙的影子一直在我眼前飄浮。終于,我咽下了最后一顆豆子。外婆很夸張地遞給我 5 美元,母親還在沉默地怒視著。總算告一段落了!至少當(dāng)時(shí)我是那么認(rèn)為的。
幾周后,外婆去了莉蓮姨媽家。一天晚飯時(shí),母親做了兩道我一直最喜歡吃的菜——肉餅和 土豆泥。和它們一起的,還有一大碗熱氣騰騰的豌豆。她給了我一些,而我拒絕了,那也正 是我純真時(shí)代終結(jié)的一刻。母親冷冰冰地看著我,一邊向我的盤子里加了一大堆的豌豆。而 后從她口里說出的話,縈繞在我心里,好多年都沒有散去。
“你可以為錢吃了它們, ”她說, “你就可以為愛吃了它們。 ”
哦,天哪!哦,太慘了!事到如今,我才頓悟:不知不覺中,我已將自己推進(jìn)萬劫不復(fù)的地獄,但一切為時(shí)已晚。
“你可以為錢吃了它們,就可以為愛吃了它們。 ”
我能有什么樣的理由來反駁呢?沒有!我無話可說。那后來我吃了沒有呢?當(dāng)然,我吃了。 在那一晚,我吃了。之后每次上豌豆的時(shí)候,我都吃了。5美元很快就被花掉了,外婆也在幾 年后過世,而豌豆事件的影響卻一直還在,直到如今。如果我看到豌豆就撅嘴的話(因?yàn)椋?無論如何,我仍然憎惡這些討厭的小東西) ,母親就會(huì)又一次重復(fù)那令我畏懼的話: “你可以 為錢吃了它們, ”她說, “就可以為愛吃了它們。 ”