Monthly Archives: December 2008

poppycock

This is one of those words that seem made to be said by proper, if pertinacious, older ladies. Undoubtedly this is the influence of poppy, as cock by itself is less dainty, even if just referring to a spigot or rooster, though the clear echo of peacock adds prettiness. The brand of mixed popcorn and nuts that takes the name also gives it a pleasant air. And the shape of it is inoffensive, almost like modern art or modern music, the echoing p shapes in the first half, destemmed and flipped to the c‘s in the second, all with a roundness repeated and realized in the o‘s, and with a y forking in the middle and the k stopping it all abruptly at the end. The act of saying it is like music too, two quick claps on one side of a concert hall echoed quickly on the other: [p] [p] … [k] [k]. Such a fun word for nonsense. But oh, if those proper ladies and the popcorn makers had to confront its origins! It’s an American borrowing of a Dutch word. Many sources will tell you it comes from pappekak, with pappe meaning something like “soft” and kak meaning (ahem) “excrement.” The Oxford English Dictionary differs, on the grounds that the word as such is not attested in Dutch, and takes it instead from a phrase referring to religious zealots, zo fijn als gemalen poppekak, literally “as fine as powdered doll poo.” The form would seem to have been borrowed with only moderate regard to the sense. But of course that could all be poppycock, too.

WTN index

At long last, I’ve added an index of all my word tasting notes. I’ll also add each new entry to it. I had been hoping for a widget to save me the trouble, but so it goes. You’ll see the link to it at the top of the page, or just go to https://sesquiotic.wordpress.com/word-tasting-note-index/.

flirt

A quick fillip of a word, like flicking a skirt or feeling a shirt. There is even a wink of an i – you may see it there in the letters, but it is not to be heard. Rather, there are four sounds here, two voiceless to start – for with the f whispering in its ear, the l prefers to whisper too, only finding its voice at the very onset of the next sound – and then a syllabic r, that retroflex liquid (or a central vowel for the non-rhotic, if not non-erotic), and then a t, a touch that lingers, the glottis stopped, but turning to a quick tap or stop if another word catches it in the act. It has such an insubstantial sound, too, no depth or commitment, like a butterfly, flipping, flitting. And indeed its sound is what has made it. It was first a verb for a fillip, a flick, or a blurting out, created by onomatopoeia; from these sudden and passing motions it extended to social behaviour. Now flirting is a form of sport in which the goal may or may not be to score; it’s a toe-dipping, a quick sipping, to get a little kick or to pick up a chick or bloke. And yet it can keep such serious company: after the obvious girls, women and man, its next most common objects are idea, danger and disaster. Ah, be careful what you wink at… it may follow you home.

kith

This is not a lisping kiss to give a cousin; it is not even the cousin whom you kiss, unless he or she be a cousin in name only. This word is now wedded to kin, but it will never be a blood relation; rather, it is someone known (not biblically), friends, those homeys who hang with your kin, or even just your countrymen. Older versions of the word referred to the country rather than the men, or simply to knowledge of or about something. It comes from Old English cyð, which is related to couth. It’s also related to kithe. (Wot, no one has kithed that word to you? It means “make known, manifest.”) With its frank, blocky k to start and its soft, sly or silly, almost mystic voiceless th to finish, it is a word of both sexes, and one that could have been coined by Tolkien or Lucas. Some may fear to take this word out alone, lest the seeming sound of a kiss lead to blushing, but it is a word of pith for those with whom you keep kit, be they Keiths or Kittys. When next you sing “Good tidings we bring to you and your kin,” do add the kith in.

warlock

The sound of this word is like a swooping followed by a clap – caped arms swinging up to clap hands over the head; bat wings; a thunder clap in reverse. And look at that w – in this word it may seem like fangs. And such negative overtones: war – fighting – and lock – closure, grip. A person dedicated to incessant conflict? Well, perhaps, but the word doesn’t come from its ostensible components. It is sprung from Old English wær-loga. The wær is from a word meaning “truth” (compare German wahr and Latin verum); the loga is related to Old English leogan, from which we get lie (i.e., not tell truth). Put together they made a denier of truth – and often, even from the beginning, that ultimate denier of truth, the Devil. From that, we move on to Satan’s little helpers. So it’s not just bad phonaesthetics that keep this word in the darker side of the ledger. And, indeed, positive tones are hard to find, other than in the work of the composer Peter Warlock (a pseudonym for Philip Heseltine), whose Capriol suite is quite pleasant and often played. Past that, we get the sonic and thematic resemblance to werewolf and the rhymes with Morlock (man’s chthonic descendant in H.G. Wells’s Time Machine) and the man from Porlock (who disrupted Coleridge in the writing of his “Kubla Khan”). So warlock is avoided. In the world of Harry Potter, male witches are wizards, not warlocks. Among Wiccans, males and females alike are witches, and emphatically not warlocks. Oh, one can still find warlocks, though – in the darker kinds of fiction, of course.

nog

A word you could almost say while swallowing. Come, take a good drink: nognognognog… Naturally, for most people, this word goes neatly with egg. It doesn’t hurt that it rhymes with grog, sounds a bit like glögg and may seem like a condensation of nutmeg. Ah, those guzzling, glugging g‘s – whether from glass, mug or jug, have a big swig and try not to gurgle. On the other hand, if you think this word sounds like a wedding of knob and peg, it so happens that it’s also a word for a cylindrical piece of wood. That version of the word, however, comes from knag or knagge, meaning a short spur from a tree trunk or branch – the k gave a suitable snag. There’s also a South African nog, which is short for nogal (stress on the second syllable), which means “what’s more” or “besides,” but the g in this case is a voiceless velar fricative, and it has nothing to do with drinks, nogal. The nog we drink is another thing… among other things, it’s not clear where it comes from. Oh, we had an idea, you know, but that was last night at the party, and no one wrote it down… Um, it may have something to do with noggin, a small drinking vessel or measure, but no one knows where that’s from either… It might be related to the northern Scottish nugg, which is ale warmed with a hot poker, and that in turn might be related to knag (see above)… or not. Or maybe it’s related to Norwegian nugge, “nudge” (what they do to you to see if you’ve had too much? probably not). One thing’s for sure: nog originally, and still in some parts of England (e.g., Norfolk), is strong ale. So we know that eggnog is supposed to have alcohol in it – if you left the rum or brandy out, you’d be unhistorically abstemious, and participating in yet another meaning shift, nog.

quarter

Does this word have a wide range of uses? As is said in Britain, “Not half!” But all of them come from the same source: Latin quartarius, from Latin quartus, “fourth,” which unsuprisingly is similar to quattuor, “four,” and on back to the Indo-European root kwetwer-. It came to English by way of French, from which we also get related words such as quart, which is a quarter of a gallon. But how does a fourth part relate to some of the quarter words and phrases? One avenue starts at the use of quartier in French to refer to a portion of a territory, originally a fourth but of course these things can broaden in meaning; from this we get an area of a town, whence Latin Quarter and French Quarter, as well as the military use of quarters for sleeping areas. And so too a safe place for an army to withdraw to when lifting a siege was a quartier de sauveté, and if quarter is rest, relief, respite, or retreat, then asking or giving quarter is requesting or showing mercy – note how much more often the word no interposes in those cases, however. But is a quarter horse merciful or pitiful? No, it’s good for racing a short distance – a quarter mile. Meanwhile, in football, the position farthest back from the forwards is the fullback, and closer is the halfback, and closer still is the quarterback. Three-quarterbacks are not in it, as this appears to be going by halves, but eighthbacks and sixteenthbacks are also out of the question; this isn’t music. (And why, many students of music may wonder, is the standard note a quarter note, while a whole note is typically a full bar? It was not always thus. Look at older music, including older notations of still-popular songs – e.g., Christmas carols – and you will see that, over the centuries, the notations have gotten more fractional. I leave it to music historians to account for this. But forgive them if the subject makes them crotchety, and they address it with some brevity, minimize it, or speak with a quaver.) All of the above – along with the coin worth a quarter of a dollar, of course – lend their voices to the chorus echoing in the background whenever you hear or speak this word. But what else may you get if you listen for the echoes of other words and taste this in your mouth as you say it? It depends on how you say it, of course. Many in my country say it the same as courter, giving a light taste of court and core. More in line with the dictionary is the [kw] onset, which connects the word with oh so many Latin-derived qu- words, quite a few of which are quaint, querulous or quizzical or, simply, questioning in nature; this onset seems almost akin to a rising intonation. And why not? It’s not so far from the words we use for inquiry. What? You think not, perhaps? Well, what was, in Old English, hwæt – even now, those who pronounce the [h] put it before the [w], not after – and you will find in Scandinavian languages equivalents beginning with hv, pronounced [kf]… Velar stop or fricative coordinating with the lips for a following glide or fricative. Back to that Indo-European kw. Does that make Latin fours and fourths somehow inherently questionable? Surely it’s a mere coincidence of sound, like the one that makes Chinese fours so baleful. But sounds echo, and that feeling of pursing the lips while the tongue stops the back will always have the muscle memory of the times we would do it spontaneously… as when we may ask for quarter. Which, at the end of this long tasting note (with so much more that could be said!), I will give.

durian

Well, isn’t this a prickly word to figure out. Not prickly in sound, certainly, with voicing from start to finish (and three apical consonants for Brits, two plus a laminal liquid for North Americans), but prickly because if you don’t know what it signifies its form gives a variety of miscues. Is it someone who is from, or believes in, Dury? Or in hardness (French dur)? Is it a misspelling of a French forgiveness (de rien)? Has it anything to do with dhurries? If you hear it, you might think it’s Chinese, der yin – say, does anyone remember Der Hoi-Yin, the CBC business reporter with smooth hair on one side and prickly hair on the other? Well, that’s fitting, since the durian is a fruit that’s prickly on the outside and smooth on the inside, and has a smell that is quite charitably described as prickly (“disgusting” is a more common word, but the descriptions are usually more graphic and not suitable for polite company – it is banned on Singapore’s public transit, and I mean both the description and the fruit) but a flavour that is smooth and quite popular, especially among Southeast Asians. It’s from that neighbourhood; the name is Malay, from duri, “thorn” or “prickle.” I’m sure Der Hoi-Yin has eaten it many times, living as she now does in Hong Kong. And, with her straight-razor-sharp pronunciation, she would probably pronounce it more like “doo-ree-an” than “der-yin.” That’s more in line with the Oxford English Dictionary’s listed pronunciation. And I imagine more than one British tourist, smelling these oversized tawny hand-grenade-looking stinkbombs (with heavenly flesh), has converted it to “do-yer-in.” Pity they didn’t taste it…

cacao

A level, round kind of little word. Two couples and a ring – perhaps each c is like a mouth and each a like a hand feeding it something (and what would that be?). And after two bites, nothing – or a closing dot, or a mouth open in satisfaction or calling for more, or… The experience of saying this word certainly comes with two sounds not so unlike that of a hard bar of chocolate breaking as it’s bitten (twice). At the end the mouth is indeed in a ring; one version of the pronunciation bends the tongue forward to make it a stuttered KO (is it such a knockout?), while the other is more like the name of the animal that says “m-moo.” And that m-moo c-cow m-makes m-milk, which some people for some reason blend with their chocolate or their hot cocoa. Ah, yes, cocoa, the word that this word may seem like a mistaken version of. It’s the other way around, of course: cacao is the Spanish version of cacauatl (or cacahuatl), “caca tree” (a tree an Italian might refuse to stand under, but of course caca means something different and rather better in this case). The cacao seed grows on the cacao tree, and by the time it has been crushed and thus set on its journey to the modern consumer its name, too, has undergone the mutation to cocoa, which really is just a further mixing up of the original word (cacoa and cocao were also seen at one time, but the repetition is catchier). The tl ending of cacauatl should tell you that this is a word from Nahuatl, the language of the Aztecs, which also gave us axolotl, atlatl, and an assortment of others ending thus, as well as chocolatl, which has been brought down, mutatis mutandis, to become the name of the processed product made from the cacauatl – but this is not really a return to origins at the end of processing, as chocolatl was half cacao and half pochotl. Still, whatever it is, you may have a little but you’ll want a lotl.

pinguid

A fat little word, not a fat little bird. This word comes from the Latin pinguis, meaning fat, plump, etc. Ironically, it starts with a pin – but thin it isn’t! Nor does the metallic percussion (and computer and sonar action) of ping bring to mind the lard of this word, even though there is a full family of fat-flavoured ping words, including pinguefy, pinguescence, and pinguitude. The taste of of pig gets closer to the sense. The second syllable has a movement like the second syllable of liquid, but that word has a [k] where this has the ng, and what a difference some nasal and voicing can make: so much fuller and fatter a sound. You can’t say this word without kissing the air; in fact, with the opening p, it’s like kissing it on both cheeks, like a fat little baby. As an added bonus, the word will look about the same if rotated 180 degrees, as long as you use a typographical g with its figure-eight-ness: the pin simply spins to be uid. It could blow in the breeze like an anemometer – or like one of those spinning sidewalk signs in front of greasy spoon joints. Not to force it, though: this word has an assortment of characteristics not suggestive of fat. Its obvious primary overtone is of a bird that looks like a waiter (or a chorister). But are these birds notably fat? Not really (Opus notwithstanding), though this word might make you think of them as such. They do, on the other hand, have a white head – in Welsh, pen gwyn. (Yes, an Antarctic bird has, it seems, gotten its name from a Welsh phrase.)