How much.

The future father-in-law likes to play the How much? game.  There's not a week that goes by, where he doesn't show me something he bought and asks me "How much?"  The question his dad is really asking me is: Was it unbelievably cheap or unbelievably expensive?  There is no middle ground.

Most days I don't even know what I'm looking at, let alone what it might cost.  Take snow frog side fat, for instance.  Without being told, I would have assume it was some sort of ocean vegetation, not part of an animal.  Failure is imminent every time I'm asked, "How much you think?"

It's okay.  I embrace my deficient knowledge of Chinese grocery prices.  In fact, I prefer to posit outrageously inappropriate numbers.  It leads to such fascinating conversations.  All of which start with either a dragged out "No" or a "Silly girl!" accompanied by a vehement head shake and a melodramatic wave of the arm.

Written, his response lacks the tenor it has in person.  In his broken English, what might commonly be taken as mean comes off more as a sigh of mock frustration than anything truly judgmental.

I like the How Much? game.  I am slowly building my price point for choy and other vegetables.  (Chinese market, I am so ready for you now.)  Yet... Even if I know the answer, I think I'll stick to my erroneous guesses.  The future father-in-law seems to enjoy dismissing my crazy answers and teaching me something new.