Sweet serendipity

shelf of books

It was a tough round of writing requirements for the AWC’s Furious Fiction challenge this month. In 500 words or less you had to include the name of at least one element from the periodic table AND the words ‘traffic’, ‘jowls’ and ‘hidden’ AND something that buzzes AND the first and last letter had to begin with an ‘s’. Phew!

Thankfully, library science came to my rescue – doesn’t it always? – and this sweetly serendipitous thing happened:

“Seriously?” Wilson glared at the librarian, smiling serenely behind a desk misleadingly labelled ‘Information’. “What sort of system is serendipitous juxtaposition?”

Her Cheshire cat smile grew wider.

“Wonderful.” She breathed rapture into each syllable.

“I don’t have time for this,” he said. “I’m already late. The traffic was appalling. The car park was full. I spilled my coffee and–” He grated out the words through clenched teeth, “I need that book.”

“Then I’m glad we can help you, sir.”

“But you’re not helping. I asked where it was and you said you don’t know.”

“That’s right.” She quivered with excitement like a six-year old about to blow out her birthday candles. “I don’t know where it is.”

Wilson pinched the skin at the top of his nose, hoping to dispel the faint buzz which warned of an impending migraine. It whined on, a tiny wasp trapped in his sinuses.

“Look, miss–”

She raised her left shoulder, grimaced and jerked her head rapidly to the side. The contortion drew his attention to a name badge pinned on her collar.

“Antimony. Right. If you could just tell me–”

“How it works? I’d love to!” Antimony clasped her hands together and said, “The serendipitous juxtaposition of related texts maximises the beneficial outcome of a library user’s anticipative browsing. Browsing, of course, is the art of not knowing what you want until you find it.”

“But I do know what I want,” Wilson wailed. “I know exactly what I want!”

“One book?” Antimony shook her head. “We can’t have you leaving with just one book. The library’s cost-efficiency study discovered that the optimal rate of bibliographic consumption was seven loan items per library user, per visit. Serendipitous juxtaposition allows you to find the otherwise hidden and overlooked items which are perfect for your needs. I can give you the general shelf number to browse.”

“The general…”

Wilson’s mouth opened and closed. He knew his face was flushing, his jowls wobbling like an indignant turkey’s, the damn little wasp drilling a spike of pain into his head. He remembered the doctor’s warning at his last check-up and drew in a long, deep breath.

“Yes,” he said. “Please.”

“Wonderful.” She dragged the word out again, while she scrawled a number on a card and handed it over with a flourish. “By the stairs, sir. Enjoy your browsing”

“Thank you,” he grated out, as his right eye began to twitch.

Antimony’s smile was as wide as the sky. “I’m sure it will be satisfyingly serendipitous.”

 

Avocado alligators are a snap

Photo of avocadoes

Language is weird. Beautiful and weird and I can’t resist it. Plus, it’s been too long since I indulged in a delicious Word for Wednesday*. So let’s go on another adventure in etymology – this time to the Avocado Jungle of DEATH…. **

Or at least to look at the word AVOCADO.

You can enjoy this tropical fruit with its distinctive nutty flavour smashed on toast, mashed into guacamole, cut through a salad or, my personal fave, on vegemite toasties. But have you ever wondered about the origin story of the humble avocado?

Wonder no more.

I found “avocado” trending on the Online Etymology dictionary the other day and was fascinated to discover that the word is basically a humorous homophone – which is a word that sounds like another word – e.g. humorous and humerus, which is why your funny bone is called that, even though you don’t laugh when you whack the end of it.

Ahuakatl was the Nahuatl word for both an avocado and a testicle, because… well it’s the shape, yeah? It’s like orchids, which derive their name from the Latin orchis, from the Greek orkhis, literally ‘testicle’ because of the shape of their root. Remember that, next time you’re buying your mum a nice potted dendrobium from Woolies for Mother’s Day.

So, back to the jolly green fruit.

The Aztec ahuakatl became, over time, aguacate which sounded amusingly similar to the Spanish word for lawyer – avocado. The appeal of lawyer jokes transcends time, culture and language, and the opportunity to call a testicle-shaped fruit a lawyer could not be denied.

And that’s how a tropical fruit rose from humble beginnings to, etymologically speaking, become an advocate (which derives from the Latin advocatus, for one who pleads on another’s behalf). In English, legal advocates are called barristers, after the railing – the bar – which separated the areas of the Inns of Court.

If you hang out in cafes, scoffing coffee and smashed avo on sourdough, you probably know a barista or two. Etymologically, barrister and barista have the English word bar in common. In the case of barrister it’s bar as a barrier in court, and in barista it’s bar as a tavern. Apparently, that meaning of bar wandered into Italian and came back with a coffee – barista simply means bartender in a coffee shop. Strangely similar words, but with a different amount of bragging rights when your mum is telling her friends you’re now working as one.

But, to meander back over to variations on a theme of avocadoes.

The Spanish word avocado became, in Mexican Spanish, alvacata and, since that sounded like alligato and the fruit have that fabulous green or greeny-black skin, avocadoes were called alligator pears in English from 1763.

Now, alligator simply means “the lizard” from the Spanish el lagarto, and they are not generally considered particularly humorous, being ginormous beasties of reptilian devouring. But the word always reminds me of the tale of an alderman who, when accused of corruption, indignantly declaimed that “allegations have been made and I know who the alligators are.”

A handy thing to know, I think. Almost as handy as knowing that the fruit you’re putting on your toast is, in a wordy way, a reptilian lawyer’s testicle.

Enjoy!

 

*It all started with polydactylus

**remember Cannibal Women of the Avocado Jungle of Death? A 1989 B movie spoof of Heart of Darkness? No? It was funny at the time…