In this scene, An-mei realizes that if one is to discover one's identity, one's heritage, one must metaphorically "peel off your skin, and that of your mother, and her mother before her. Until then, there is nothing." Nothing, that is, except the scar. An-mei herself bears a scar, a reminder of the day that her mother came to Popo's house and cried out, begging An-mei to come with her. Popo had damned her own daughter — and at that moment, a pot of dark boiling soup spilled on tiny An-mei.
The little girl almost died; she would have, in fact, if Popo hadn't revealed the love that she carried in her heart — but could not demonstrate — for An-mei's mother. Gently, she warned An-mei that if she did not get well, her mother would forget her. An-mei immediately began her recovery. Each of the daughters in this novel will, in individual ways, undergo this process of healing the divisiveness that separates them from their mothers.
Tan's figurative language and imagery reinforce the magical, fairy-tale atmosphere that is threaded throughout the narrative. The images create an enchanted mood, where all sorts of strange things seem possible. This section opens with the image of An-mei's mother as a ghost. Popo tells the children about ghosts that steal strong-willed little girls. Later, An-mei's mother seems "to float back and forth like a ghost." Accordingly, in this fairy-tale world, it shocks Western readers initially when An-mei's mother slices a piece of her own flesh into a pot of soup — and yet, it seems appropriate if she is to successfully create a healing charm. The child understands the meaning of this sacrifice.
