From the Kitchen of Half Truth Read Online Free Page A

agonizing wait while Christopher Newbuck stumbled through the French for “my grandmother likes Ping-Pong” and Louise Warbuck got in a muddle and told us that her father was a coconut, I finally had my chance to shine.
    â€œ Où est l’hôtel de ville ,” I said in the passionate, dreamy way that my mother had taught me.
    â€œThat’s very good, Meg,” Madame Emily praised, clearly impressed. “And can you tell the class what it means?”
    â€œFrom what I understand,” I said with such pretentiousness that I cringe to recall it, “it’s not a phrase that can easily be translated. But it’s a traditional French declaration of love. And it was the first thing that my father—who was an actual French person—said to my mother when they first met.”
    Madame Emily gave a sharp shriek of laughter.
    â€œWell, I’m not sure where you got that from! It would be quite an odd way to express your love. It means ‘where is the town hall’!”
    All around me I heard my new classmates starting to giggle. I felt as if the classroom was closing in on me. Where is the town hall? She must be confused. It couldn’t mean that. I watched Madame Emily chuckling away and glanced at the still-unfamiliar faces around me contorted with laughter. Seeing that I didn’t find it funny in the slightest but was instead on the verge of tears, Madame Emily suddenly stopped laughing and asked for quiet.
    â€œâ€˜Where is the town hall’ is an extremely important phrase, though,” she said as a way of compensation. “And it’s probably going to be the first thing you will want to ask someone when you arrive in France, which is why it’s the first phrase we learn. If you turn to page one of your textbook, everyone, you’ll see that phrase at the top of the page…”
    And there it was, right at the top of page one in French Made Fun! In the cartoon, the Englishman with the bowler hat and umbrella was disembarking from the ferry and asking a random Frenchman—identifiable by the string of onions around his neck— Où est l’hôtel de ville? It wasn’t romantic in the slightest, and in the context of my parents’ first meeting, it made absolutely no sense whatsoever. It didn’t take me any time at all to realize that it was clearly the only French phrase that my mother remembered from her own school days and that she had taken advantage of my ignorance to deceive me.
    â€œThe individual words aren’t important, darling,” my mother said dismissively when I burst into the flat later that day and threw my new school bag on the kitchen floor in anger. “It’s the sentiment that matters. Think of it like a Victoria sponge cake. You wouldn’t eat any of the ingredients on their own, but mixed together with passion and love they create something—”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” I snapped at her. “This has nothing to do with a Victoria sponge cake! Why is everything always about cakes with you? Was my father even French? Was he even a chef?”
    I remember my mother standing there in our tiny, cramped kitchen with plaster peeling off the ceiling and condensation misting the windows. She had her hands placed on her hips like she always did when she was angry.
    â€œI don’t know what has got into you, young lady. Just because you’re at big school now doesn’t mean you have to be so quarrelsome. I will not have you insulting your poor dead father’s name by asking such silly questions. Your father would have loved you very much, you know. He was a talented and courageous man who met an untimely death in his quest for perfection in the pastry industry, and you constantly question—”
    â€œAll right, all right!” I shouted. “Just…just don’t talk to me about him again!”
    I ran to my room and slammed the door shut, throwing