My mother’s hands are deep in cabbage leaves, her sleeves pushed up past her

游客2023-12-17 19

问题 My mother’s hands are deep in cabbage leaves, her sleeves pushed up past her elbows, as she sifts through water, salt, and vegetable. Beneath her nails are saffron flakes of red pepper powder. My mother wears an apron; under it her stomach is full and round. The apron is blue with red borders. I remember she bought it one day at Woodward’s on sale.
I sit at the kitchen table beneath a peach-painted ceiling and a chandelier with oversized plastic teardrops. Every now then I get up and walk over to the counter, peer into the yellow tub, watch, pretend to watch, and then sit down again. Across from me, the little knick-knacks my mother loves so much--ceramic flowers, Delfts-blue miniature vases, a figurine forever windblown -- are arranged carefully upon the window sill.
My mother’s hands are thin-skinned, pale, spotted and freckled with age and sun. The nails are thick, almost yellow. A few strands of hair, not quite black, fall over her forehead and her mouth is slightly open, the tip of her tongue just visible between her teeth as she lifts and mixes the cabbage leaves. "Are you paying attention?" she wants to know, and I nod at ceramic flowers, Delfts-blue miniature vases, a figurine forever windblown.
Kim chee is pickled cabbage. Friends always ask me for bottles of the stuff: Mama Kim’s special recipe, they tease. I pass this onto my mother and she grumbles and laughs, embarrassed, pleased.
My mother’s hands lie in my lap and I touch them carefully, lift them like small, live animals, fit them into the plans of my own hands, turn them over and think of crab-hunting as a child and a trail of overturned, shell-encrusted sea rocks.
Once I told my mother that I would like to photograph her hands, and she peered down at them, lifted her hands up to her face suspiciously as if seeing them for the first time. "My hands?" she asked, and I went and fetched some skin lotion from the bathroom. Her hands were too dry.
I had her sit on the couch in the living-room. The couch was floral-patterned and she sat in the centre of it, awkward, distracted. I took the pictures, head-to-toe shots, some of her hands alone. They lay limply in her lap. She held one hand with the other. She didn’t know what else to do with them. I took the pictures. Every ten minutes or so she got up and walked to the kitchen, checked the oven, the various pots. My father walked by once, and joked, "How about my hands?"
The cabbage leaves are washed and salted and rinsed. This much I remember. A winter’s sun floats in through the window, plays weakly with the plastic tear-drops, falls down onto the kitchen table, onto my own hands. I suppose they will soon look like hers.
I get up, restless, lean over the counter, try to concentrate. Every year for the last five years or so I have asked my mother to teach me how to pickle cabbage. Every year I have watched her hands, seen the aprons change, the stomach grow more round -- the cabbage leaves are washed and salted and rinsed. This much I remember.
I take the rolls of film to a friend who knows something about photography. He develops them and is impressed. He sees a small Asian woman, smiling hesitantly into a camera, lost among the flowers of living-room couches. She is tired and stiff. My friend doesn’t even notice her hands. He calls the photos "real", I call them "disappointing".
The kim chee is just made so it is not quite ripe, but we eat a little of it at dinner, anyway. My father tells me his story about villagers who ran away during the war, as the bombs came down, with earthenware kim chee pots in their arms. It is favourite, not quite-ripe kim chee story.
When the winter sunlight comes through the kitchen window, tear-refracted onto my own hands. I stop writing and put down my pen. My mother asks, "What are you writing. And I tell her that I am writing about kim chee. She laughs, "You don’t even know how to make it".
The rice, the bulgogi, the chap thee are eaten. The kim chee is returned to its plastic icecream container. My mother and my father tell more stories to each other as I clear the table. They speak quickly in their own language, animated, alive. For a few moments I am forgotten, the daughter who would be bored by such stories. I put the dishes away. Strange, that it has never been strange not to understand them.
I go through the photographs once again, wondering what it is that is missing or that I’m not seeing. I spread them out onto the kitchen table. My mother looks over my shoulder and makes a sound, a familiar, all-purpose clicking of the tongue. "All that film... ", she says as she walks back to the stove.
I look at the photographs and I look at my mother in her woodward’s apron, her hands holding chopsticks, wooden spoons, the handles of pots and pans. I look at her hands and they are alive. They speak quickly. And this, I guess, is all I really need to remember. [br] What’s the subject of the passage?

选项 A、My mother’s hand.
B、Pickled cabbage.
C、Kim chee.
D、My mother.

答案 D

解析该题问：这篇文章的主题是什么？A项意为“我母亲的手”；B项意为“腌甘蓝”；C项意为“朝鲜咸菜”；D项意为“我的母亲”，从表层看，全文确实围绕A项，我的母亲的“手”在写，实则，作者通过母亲的手，这双勤劳的、粗糙的、朴实无华、充满生命力的手写出了他母亲的伟大。一位勤劳、朴素、慈祥、乐观、充满活力、富有自我牺牲精神的母亲，听到孩子在写朝鲜咸菜，她笑了，说了句“你甚至还不知道怎么腌咸菜”。一切都说明是她默默地、心甘情愿、心情愉快地在干所有的事情。见到照片，说了几个词“所有这些照片……”言下之意“都是她”，她没有想到，也不会想到，认为一切都很平常，理所当然，没有炫耀、留念的必要。尽管岁月不饶人的烙印烙在她身上(肚子越来越大，已有几卷不太黑的头发)和手上(苍白、瘦而无肉，布满岁月的皱纹和斑点)。这一切都说明C项 (我的母亲)实则是本文之主题。

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