Love is about making exceptions

Last year, for reasons of global warming and everyone’s general busyness, our family spent our annual holiday in a half-built amusement park near 小梅沙, not far at all from the Lo Wu border. The amusement park was incomplete, but there was something quite earnest about the half-painted concrete pretending to be boulders. The park was huge, and we’d intended to camp there, but it was “winter season” already and they weren’t having any more campers.

They weren’t really serving lunch either, because they were renovating the kitchen. Still, the sofas were plush, the view fantastic, and they could do noodles.

“Can you do this without meat?” asked mum of the waitress, “Just some vegetables would be great. Unless Homei would like chicken.”

"Sure," said my brother.

“Please omit the MSG,” I said to the waitress. "I'm allergic."

"And go easy on the salt," said mum. The waitress didn't even raise an eyebrow.

Meanwhile, dad was browsing the drinks menu. They were offering freshly squeezed juice for $40 a glass, or $70 a pitcher.

“Let’s have a jug,” said dad, happy that he had found one thing that we could actually drink. Mum and I hemmed and hawed at the price. After all, we did have a juicer back at home, and could make all this at a fraction of the price. But then again, we weren’t home, and having hiked and taken the scenic train as far as it would go, we were ready for a drink.

“Grape juice,” I decided, settling on something we would not make back home. Dad frowned.

“What about apple or orange?” he asked.

I could read between his lines. Grapes are a prime candidate for pesticides, and given that we were in mainland China, the probability of those grapes being organic was pretty close to zero. But for reason, I really had a craving for grape juice. I didn’t want tartness of apple or the acidity of orange. I wanted something sweet.

“Grape,” I insisted. “We can have the others at home.”

“Ok,” said dad. “Let’s have grape juice.”

I felt a warm rush of sunlight. If I hadn’t been so comfortably eaten up by the plush chair, I would have gotten up and hugged him. Dad has probably written fifteen books on the evils of pesticides, and yet, because we were family, he was willing to make this exception.