In late March 1757, in Paris, the failed regicide Robert-François Damiens was executed by the bloodthirsty method of drawing and quartering. His grisly death is recounted in the memoirs of Casanova: "I was several times obliged to turn away my face and to stop my ears as I heard his piercing shrieks, half of his body having been torn from him."
Poor old Damiens and his sufferings always leap to mind whenever I am lectured about stretching every morning. After all, is straining to touch your toes any less painful than having your arms and legs ripped off by four shire horses harnessed to each limb, meanwhile, with surgical precision, your torso is being tweaked with red hot pincers and razor sharp daggers? Beneficial exercise is often described with the torturous euphemism "feeling the burn" for good reason, let's not forget. Indeed, I think Casanova would be equally appalled by my grimaces and screams of agonies in the gym as he was by witnessing Damiens' ordeal. At least Damiens wasn't forced to wear polyester gym shorts and a sweaty tank top, a small mercy for which he should have been most grateful.
Supposedly, as we get older, daily stretching regimens improve the flexibility in our bones and joints, thereby reducing the risk of incurring activity-based injuries: a cracked tibia, perchance, from tripping over a partner's foot while waltzing to the golden sounds of yesteryear; or maybe just a pulled muscle from trying to reach that bottle of aspirin which some shopkeeping idiot stores on the top shelf in his pharmacy aisle. I myself often fall victim to a pinched nerve in my neck: the unhappy consequence of not sitting up properly while typing blog posts in bed. Ouch. There it goes again.
Yet even the sorts of amateur athletes who relentlessly stretch their spandex and fleece clad bodies throughout the day, those lunch break joggers and their kind, reek of powerful analgesic ointments and Cortizone cream. You have to wonder why they bother with the cult of stretching since it obviously doesn't diminish their discomfort. If you ask me, ill-considered stretching beforehand probably contributes a not inconsiderable amount of wince-worthy extra ache to their exercise-propagated pains. Stretching is another modern myth, in other words, no less preposterous than the old wives' tale that you should starve a fever and feed a cold. Following that wretched advice only results in hungry people drenched with sweat and fat folk who sneeze and cough a great deal.
The torn rotator cuff, the inflamed knee, the outraged elbow and the dislocated hip are simply afflictions we must bear with as much fortitude and dignity as we can muster, which unfortunately turns out to be very little in my case.
I wouldn't denounce myself as a baby, exactly, but my response to joint and muscle pain certainly doesn't wear long trousers or wipe its own chin and nose; it is, perhaps, best described as the tantrum of a spoiled brat: spoiled because I've rarely experienced much corporal distress until my recent heart problems; I had no permanent bruises, disfigurements or scars before. These days I often feel like a Vitruvian man who's been scrunched up into a ball of waste paper. It's a short road from muscle ache to bellyache, which is probably why I go on about my bypass so incessantly.
Meanwhile, the only statement Damiens made on the morning of his execution was a taciturn verdict that "The day will be tough." Very stoic of him, I'm sure, but he wouldn't have been an especially good blogger with grandiose reticence like that, however impressive it may appear in history books.
Adam 2
Despite the best efforts of certain scientists and philosophers over the years to develop a breed of superior humanoids, the most common human hybrid at large in the world today is the human-baboon. There seem to be more and more of them every year, loping around the city streets in their basketball shorts and misshapen sneakers. This is why, together with the parlour game Exquisite Corpse, certain exotic aspects of pre-modern era West Indian cuisine, and playing with my extensive collection of Mr Potato Head dolls, the controversial field of Bioethics as always held a great deal of fascination for me. In fact, I think I would have done quite well if I'd chosen the Transhumanist career path in college; hanging around in the lab in my white coat, rolling DNA around in my palm like a ball of Silly Putty; throwing it up to the ceiling to see how long it would stick there. That's a job for life.
But Bioethics isn't always as simple as meeting with your colleagues over coffee to discuss growing a row of human fingers next to the toe patch. As the name implies, practicing this branch of biology inevitably engenders many ethical if impertinent questions from unscientific sections of the community; from those pious souls who still believe in God's creation, for example, and from concerned parents who don't want their steam-punk child getting silicon Devil horns implanted in his skull when he joins an alternative rock band.
But most of us are moral relativists, content to merely cross the street whenever we see some misbegotten lovechild of freakdom and cosmetic surgery walking towards us, secure in the knowledge that there is either a comic book convention around the corner or a rock concert up the road, rather than the profanity made flesh that the appearance of such a creature might have suggested in previous centuries.
In my most idle moments, which occur about eight or nine times a day, I often wonder whether my cardiac bypass counts as Transhuman engineering. It was a rather dramatic restructuring of the natural order, after all. Not that I expect to find myself pursued by angry villagers waving flaming torches anytime soon, of course. My operation was certainly no feat of Promethean medical genius to rival Frankenstein's, just a low-level starter kit operation suitable for Igor or the Baron's nephew. But still, my internal organs were altered by radical scientific intervention, however mundane that intervention may seem when compared to splitting a transgressive artist's tongue into a forked and serpentine fashion accessory.
But Bioethics isn't always as simple as meeting with your colleagues over coffee to discuss growing a row of human fingers next to the toe patch. As the name implies, practicing this branch of biology inevitably engenders many ethical if impertinent questions from unscientific sections of the community; from those pious souls who still believe in God's creation, for example, and from concerned parents who don't want their steam-punk child getting silicon Devil horns implanted in his skull when he joins an alternative rock band.
But most of us are moral relativists, content to merely cross the street whenever we see some misbegotten lovechild of freakdom and cosmetic surgery walking towards us, secure in the knowledge that there is either a comic book convention around the corner or a rock concert up the road, rather than the profanity made flesh that the appearance of such a creature might have suggested in previous centuries.
In my most idle moments, which occur about eight or nine times a day, I often wonder whether my cardiac bypass counts as Transhuman engineering. It was a rather dramatic restructuring of the natural order, after all. Not that I expect to find myself pursued by angry villagers waving flaming torches anytime soon, of course. My operation was certainly no feat of Promethean medical genius to rival Frankenstein's, just a low-level starter kit operation suitable for Igor or the Baron's nephew. But still, my internal organs were altered by radical scientific intervention, however mundane that intervention may seem when compared to splitting a transgressive artist's tongue into a forked and serpentine fashion accessory.
Just Desserts
According to gastronomic legend, Winston Churchill once rejected a proffered dessert with the stern rebuke "Take it away. This pudding has no theme." An unnecessarily irascible judgment, perhaps, on what was probably an inoffensive blancmange or sherry trifle. The great man's moods, after all, were famously unpredictable. Yet I can readily sympathize with Churchill's gruff response because I also fall into a slough of despond when confronted by themeless puddings.
Indeed, my prejudice against such culinary crimes perhaps runs even deeper, since I will reject any pudding that does not exhibit a single, unified theme based on a series of leitmotifs evident in the preceding soup, salad and fish. In other words, my pudding must bind all courses of the entire meal together as a fully realized concept, rather like Wagner's Götterdämmerung concludes and completes his epic Ring of the Nibelung cycle, or else I will fling my spoon to the furthest recesses of the dining hall and storm away from the table, flapping my napkin violently in the astonished faces of any nearby waiters.
Wagner's ultimate theme, of course, was the death of the ancient heroes and Gods of the Northern people. A noble if frequently misunderstood subject, I'm sure you will agree. But the unifying theme I look for in my puddings, in fact the only theme that I consider acceptable, is even more momentous and Nietzchean than the destruction of Valhalla: it is the Elimination of Trans and Saturated Fats.
Admittedly, this is an almost impossible undertaking, at least in the realm of conventional puddings; a Herculean feat of sweetmeat preparation, if I may borrow allusions from southern European mythology, that makes Theseus' battle with the Minotaur seem nothing but an exchange of playful slaps. Any pudding, for example, whose ingredients include milk, eggs or butter is absolutely verboten; a dietary untouchable; an Ishmael made out of cholesterol and calories. Restaurant cake trays have become my equivalent of leper colonies in Calcutta, and there is no Mother Theresa in the kitchen.
So, on the whole, this leaves me with an unappetizing choice between the plate of sliced, seasonal fruit or a handful of walnuts. At least both selections have a strong and easily recognizable theme.
Alas, history does not record the exact nature of the themelessness that Churchill found objectionable in his pudding. Perhaps its components did not conform to his strict idea of puddings historically consumed by the English speaking peoples? More likely, as I suggested earlier, it was a simple blancmange that some whimsical chef had unwisely augmented with elements of crème brûlée; or maybe an experimental form of trifle, foolishly flavored with cointreau instead of sherry. But we shall never know, and nobody with an ounce of common sense and a healthy constitution should ever really care.
Indeed, my prejudice against such culinary crimes perhaps runs even deeper, since I will reject any pudding that does not exhibit a single, unified theme based on a series of leitmotifs evident in the preceding soup, salad and fish. In other words, my pudding must bind all courses of the entire meal together as a fully realized concept, rather like Wagner's Götterdämmerung concludes and completes his epic Ring of the Nibelung cycle, or else I will fling my spoon to the furthest recesses of the dining hall and storm away from the table, flapping my napkin violently in the astonished faces of any nearby waiters.
Wagner's ultimate theme, of course, was the death of the ancient heroes and Gods of the Northern people. A noble if frequently misunderstood subject, I'm sure you will agree. But the unifying theme I look for in my puddings, in fact the only theme that I consider acceptable, is even more momentous and Nietzchean than the destruction of Valhalla: it is the Elimination of Trans and Saturated Fats.
Admittedly, this is an almost impossible undertaking, at least in the realm of conventional puddings; a Herculean feat of sweetmeat preparation, if I may borrow allusions from southern European mythology, that makes Theseus' battle with the Minotaur seem nothing but an exchange of playful slaps. Any pudding, for example, whose ingredients include milk, eggs or butter is absolutely verboten; a dietary untouchable; an Ishmael made out of cholesterol and calories. Restaurant cake trays have become my equivalent of leper colonies in Calcutta, and there is no Mother Theresa in the kitchen.
So, on the whole, this leaves me with an unappetizing choice between the plate of sliced, seasonal fruit or a handful of walnuts. At least both selections have a strong and easily recognizable theme.
Alas, history does not record the exact nature of the themelessness that Churchill found objectionable in his pudding. Perhaps its components did not conform to his strict idea of puddings historically consumed by the English speaking peoples? More likely, as I suggested earlier, it was a simple blancmange that some whimsical chef had unwisely augmented with elements of crème brûlée; or maybe an experimental form of trifle, foolishly flavored with cointreau instead of sherry. But we shall never know, and nobody with an ounce of common sense and a healthy constitution should ever really care.
Into the Mystic
My arthritic aunt Herbertha always gives me a gift certificate for clairvoyant services at Christmas: a Romanian gypsy storefront operation, usually, but sometimes a Priestess of Isis in a proper temple if she's feeling especially benevolent. This year, the economy being what it is, the gift certificate was from Studio Madame Ceaucescu, the place with a neon moon sign in the window above the closed Chinese restaurant in Gormenghast Street.
"Clairvoyant gift certificates are much more fun than one of those boring Amazon things," my aunt said, as I opened the envelope and forced another smile of gratitude. Perhaps, although they are also far less useful, if you ask me. My confidence in gypsy fortune tellers was completely eviscerated by Madame Svevo's miserable failure to predict my hospitalization for bypass surgery the previous February: "You may experience some slight browning of your soul in early June" being the only vaguely pertinent remark that the old Carpathian fraud made concerning my health in 2011. She did also receive a psychic communication from a long deceased relative of mine, apparently a nineteenth-century surgeon called Aloysius Baldwin, but his channeled voice merely announced that he was with Great Aunt Ermentrude and that everyone was very happy on the other side; conversational subjects of negligible interest to me.
So it was with a weary step, guided by the neon moon with gift certificate in hand, that I climbed the stairs to Studio Madame Ceaucescu one morning last week. Her rooms smelled strongly of joss sticks, musty fabrics, body odor and ineffective blasts of lemon-scented Lysol that hung around to revel in their own failure. There was a rickety table upon which a crystal ball balanced precariously; two chairs fitted with threadbare cushions; a doorless portal to a back room that was strung with colorful beads; and a small cabinet in the corner supporting the bust of a mouse-headed deity of indeterminate gender. The only pictures were a dog-eared tourist map of Cairo haphazardly pinned to the wall, and an elaborately framed aquatint of a tiny shepherd standing amid oblong rocks, unconvincingly titled Stonehenge in the Olden Time.
To be honest, I wasn't expecting much: some mumbled nonsense about ill-omens for my non-existent business interests; a suggestion of back pain at some unspecified point in the future; a possible trip across water in the summer; you know, the usual, obvious drivel.
The appearance of Madame Ceaucescu herself only reinforced this poor impression. She was dressed like a Pre-Raphaelite vision of one of the Three Kings of Orient, most probably the king bringing the gift of myrrh, if I was forced to specify.
"You come seeking knowledge," she stated flatly in an ersatz Bela Lugosi accent, as if the upstairs of a Chinese restaurant was a perfectly normal place to find the secrets of the universe revealed.
"Yes. I come seeking knowledge," I explained. "And I can cross your palm with a gift certificate for forty dollars."
"Ah. You must be nephew of woman called Herbertha. The messengers of the stars said you would come soon. Please, take seat."
And so I sat down at the rickety table, resigned to hearing Madame Ceaucescu pretend that everything my aunt had told her about me was actually clairvoyant wisdom from the astral plane.
"The five of lozenges reversed," she exclaimed, turning over the first Tarot card. "It signifies health problems in the past. Maybe an operation on heart. Health is better now but care must still be taken."
"I had a double bypass," I confirmed wearily.
"Yes. The ten of hoops says this. And the ace of hoops next to the ten means less of the fats must be consumed in your foods every day."
It was nearly noon, and the pungent stench of Kung Pao Chicken lunch specials began seeping through the floorboards of Studio Madame Ceaucescu as she continued interpreting the cards.
"Do they say anything about who will read about this experience on my blog?" I inquired, trying hard to prevent any note of derision from creeping into my voice.
She exhaled noisily and gave me a significant glance, holding my gaze for what seemed like an eternity before flipping over the last card: The Fool, reversed.
"I knew that was going to happen." I said. "It always does."
Madame Ceaucescu nodded. "Yes. It means you should tell your aunt to just give you the cash next Christmas like everybody else does."
"Clairvoyant gift certificates are much more fun than one of those boring Amazon things," my aunt said, as I opened the envelope and forced another smile of gratitude. Perhaps, although they are also far less useful, if you ask me. My confidence in gypsy fortune tellers was completely eviscerated by Madame Svevo's miserable failure to predict my hospitalization for bypass surgery the previous February: "You may experience some slight browning of your soul in early June" being the only vaguely pertinent remark that the old Carpathian fraud made concerning my health in 2011. She did also receive a psychic communication from a long deceased relative of mine, apparently a nineteenth-century surgeon called Aloysius Baldwin, but his channeled voice merely announced that he was with Great Aunt Ermentrude and that everyone was very happy on the other side; conversational subjects of negligible interest to me.
So it was with a weary step, guided by the neon moon with gift certificate in hand, that I climbed the stairs to Studio Madame Ceaucescu one morning last week. Her rooms smelled strongly of joss sticks, musty fabrics, body odor and ineffective blasts of lemon-scented Lysol that hung around to revel in their own failure. There was a rickety table upon which a crystal ball balanced precariously; two chairs fitted with threadbare cushions; a doorless portal to a back room that was strung with colorful beads; and a small cabinet in the corner supporting the bust of a mouse-headed deity of indeterminate gender. The only pictures were a dog-eared tourist map of Cairo haphazardly pinned to the wall, and an elaborately framed aquatint of a tiny shepherd standing amid oblong rocks, unconvincingly titled Stonehenge in the Olden Time.
To be honest, I wasn't expecting much: some mumbled nonsense about ill-omens for my non-existent business interests; a suggestion of back pain at some unspecified point in the future; a possible trip across water in the summer; you know, the usual, obvious drivel.
The appearance of Madame Ceaucescu herself only reinforced this poor impression. She was dressed like a Pre-Raphaelite vision of one of the Three Kings of Orient, most probably the king bringing the gift of myrrh, if I was forced to specify.
"You come seeking knowledge," she stated flatly in an ersatz Bela Lugosi accent, as if the upstairs of a Chinese restaurant was a perfectly normal place to find the secrets of the universe revealed.
"Yes. I come seeking knowledge," I explained. "And I can cross your palm with a gift certificate for forty dollars."
"Ah. You must be nephew of woman called Herbertha. The messengers of the stars said you would come soon. Please, take seat."
And so I sat down at the rickety table, resigned to hearing Madame Ceaucescu pretend that everything my aunt had told her about me was actually clairvoyant wisdom from the astral plane.
"The five of lozenges reversed," she exclaimed, turning over the first Tarot card. "It signifies health problems in the past. Maybe an operation on heart. Health is better now but care must still be taken."
"I had a double bypass," I confirmed wearily.
"Yes. The ten of hoops says this. And the ace of hoops next to the ten means less of the fats must be consumed in your foods every day."
It was nearly noon, and the pungent stench of Kung Pao Chicken lunch specials began seeping through the floorboards of Studio Madame Ceaucescu as she continued interpreting the cards.
"Do they say anything about who will read about this experience on my blog?" I inquired, trying hard to prevent any note of derision from creeping into my voice.
She exhaled noisily and gave me a significant glance, holding my gaze for what seemed like an eternity before flipping over the last card: The Fool, reversed.
"I knew that was going to happen." I said. "It always does."
Madame Ceaucescu nodded. "Yes. It means you should tell your aunt to just give you the cash next Christmas like everybody else does."
Traditional Byparse Christmas
It is Christmas Eve at Wartschwanberg Castle; or dickbauch in the old Schloss on the hill, if you prefer that sort of language. The tree is hung with miniature Hapsburg jawbones reflecting candlelight from a zillion hand-rolled tapers, and topped with a silver quaternion eagle. Mantelpieces in every room are laden with sprigs of berried holly, fir garlands and glittered greeting cards: "Merry Christmas Aunt Griselda. Sorry I haven't seen you for thirty-five years but I am still exiled in the land of the Slavs."
There is ice skating on the frozen millpond and a Red-Nosed Erasmus look-a-like competition beside the Holbein Gate. Seasonal drinks are served from the Woodcutter's Rest: Rheinheitsgebot beer, seaweed punch from the Baltic states, mulled cider for Wassailing, eggnog schnapps, plum and spiced almond wine.
In the great hall, Crown-Prince Ludwig is dressed like a pixie because he has been passing purple water; and fancy-dressed Minnesänger are rinsing their vocal chords with mistletoe juice in preparation for the Yuletide Sängerkrieg. The Grand Duchess, hidden deep in a sable coat, is supervising the wrapping of presents in the privy council chambers: there is a box of tin soldiers for Otto, a box of tin soldiers for Wolfgang, a box of tin soldiers for Franz, and fairy-tale Alpine fortress themed wooden building blocks for Ludwig. There used to be a extravagant nativity scene in the castle, but the Christ child figure was captured by Napoleon after the Prussian army's surrender during the Fourth Coalition.
Meanwhile, in the courtyard, Old Mother Trümmerfrau is selling poisoned marzipan to disobedient children and the wizened Nutmen are stirring horse chestnuts in oaken barrels of boiling brine. Sticky treacle is outlawed by the Duke this year, for some reason, but towering cake trays are laden with Esterhazy torte, Thomasplitzchen, chocolate Fredericks, Hanseatic gingerbum, brandied woppel pears and traditional fig flavored nougat wizzels.
Alas, Herr Doktor has ordained that Poor Stephen can't eat any of them because of his high-cholesterol; so he must subsist by sipping cold sprout and carrot gruel in a lowly cattle shed outside the castle walls. Not for him the turkey wrapped in bacon tinsel or the fatted goose stuffed with fatted gosling. Not for him the toffee covered cherries and extra slice of Black Forest cake washed down with lashings of Liebfraumilch. Yes, it will be a merry but culinarily austere Christmas for Poor Stephen this year.
(Historical note: although Dickbauch is a real celebration, a fair proportion of the food and drink mentioned here is invented by me. There are no such things as "Hanseatic gingerbum" or "nougat wizzels" as far as I know, so don't go asking for them at your local German gourmet import store or you might be forcibly ejected from the premises)
There is ice skating on the frozen millpond and a Red-Nosed Erasmus look-a-like competition beside the Holbein Gate. Seasonal drinks are served from the Woodcutter's Rest: Rheinheitsgebot beer, seaweed punch from the Baltic states, mulled cider for Wassailing, eggnog schnapps, plum and spiced almond wine.
In the great hall, Crown-Prince Ludwig is dressed like a pixie because he has been passing purple water; and fancy-dressed Minnesänger are rinsing their vocal chords with mistletoe juice in preparation for the Yuletide Sängerkrieg. The Grand Duchess, hidden deep in a sable coat, is supervising the wrapping of presents in the privy council chambers: there is a box of tin soldiers for Otto, a box of tin soldiers for Wolfgang, a box of tin soldiers for Franz, and fairy-tale Alpine fortress themed wooden building blocks for Ludwig. There used to be a extravagant nativity scene in the castle, but the Christ child figure was captured by Napoleon after the Prussian army's surrender during the Fourth Coalition.
Meanwhile, in the courtyard, Old Mother Trümmerfrau is selling poisoned marzipan to disobedient children and the wizened Nutmen are stirring horse chestnuts in oaken barrels of boiling brine. Sticky treacle is outlawed by the Duke this year, for some reason, but towering cake trays are laden with Esterhazy torte, Thomasplitzchen, chocolate Fredericks, Hanseatic gingerbum, brandied woppel pears and traditional fig flavored nougat wizzels.
Alas, Herr Doktor has ordained that Poor Stephen can't eat any of them because of his high-cholesterol; so he must subsist by sipping cold sprout and carrot gruel in a lowly cattle shed outside the castle walls. Not for him the turkey wrapped in bacon tinsel or the fatted goose stuffed with fatted gosling. Not for him the toffee covered cherries and extra slice of Black Forest cake washed down with lashings of Liebfraumilch. Yes, it will be a merry but culinarily austere Christmas for Poor Stephen this year.
(Historical note: although Dickbauch is a real celebration, a fair proportion of the food and drink mentioned here is invented by me. There are no such things as "Hanseatic gingerbum" or "nougat wizzels" as far as I know, so don't go asking for them at your local German gourmet import store or you might be forcibly ejected from the premises)
Hurlegurnon!
Language is how we define the human condition: the more words we know the more precisely we can understand ourselves and the world we inhabit. Consequently, learning a lot of obscure and bizarre words makes it easier for us to explain the obscure and bizzare events that we experience; like undergoing bypass surgery, for instance, since "bypass surgery" or even "Coronary Arterial Bypass Graft" don't accurately describe the spine-chilling, Twilight Zone horror of that particular procedure with any fidelity. In fact, most medical terms provide profoundly inadequate descriptions of the grotesquely invasive processes that are performed in operating rooms across the world every day. Surely it is high time that the World Health Organization hired someone like myself to invent more realistic names for everything that happens in a hospital.
Anyway, recently, while skimming at pace through a Kindle ebook about ancient languages, it struck me - admittedly more like being flicked with a wet towel than being hit by a bolt of lightning, but struck me nonetheless - just how many these rich and colorful words are erased from human memory each day by the triumph of dreary modern diction. The English language, for example, could once boast many bizarre words, borrowed from now defunct foreign cultures, to build its own distinct vocabulary. Unfortunately many of these jaw-fracturing, multi-syllabic nouns, verbs and adjectives are now forgotten or ignored. Employ any obscure word with a Pictish root in conversation, for example, and your interlocutor will simply assume that you are in the preliminary stages of belching up an entire haggis. Similarly, although not as offensively guttural, using a Norman French word will merely convince others that you are making a euphemistic reference to the bathroom, when you were actually complimenting the new tapestry on their living room wall.
Of all the words that medieval Norman French contributed to the English language, Hurlegurgnon! is the most underused. Indeed, the word is so rare that I might be accused of merely inventing it to provide readable fodder for my humble blog. But why would a simple scribe such as I resort to such linguistic tricks, especially when the words means something absolutely repulsive and unpleasant?
Indeed, saying Hurlegurgnon! is so rude and impolite that I have only ever uttered it twice in public: once when I hit myself in the eye with an exploding cork from a misdirected champagne bottle; and secondly, and most memorably, when a surgeon removed three plastic feeder tubes from my poor stomach with three swift tugs. "Hurlegurgnon!" I cried as the alien apparatus slithered between my intestines and popped out of my body.
"I'm sorry but did you say something just now?" the surgeon asked.
"Yes. I'm afraid I yelled Hurlegurgnon!" I admitted.
"Nobody's ever come out with that before," he said laughing. "What is it, some sort of foreign swear word?"
"It was French about a thousand years ago." I explained. "But it got assimilated into English when the Normans invaded before falling out of common usage." I explained. "So, yeah, basically I guess you could call Hurlegurgnon! an archaic foreign swear word. It's the kind of thing an eleventh century French knight might have said as he fell into a Saxon shield-wall. And later his descendants might have muttered it under their breath when dealing with surly English tenant farmers."
"I see," he nodded. "So what does Hurlegurgnon! actually mean?"
"I'll tell you after the nurses have left." I said. "The definition is unsuitable for airing in mixed company, even if that mixed company does spend much of its working day coping with some extremely grotesque and disgusting problems."
Alas, the surgeon's pager immediately summoned him to another part of the hospital before I could impart the information, so I suppose he remains ignorant of the meaning to this day. A shame, really, since most lexicographers would conclude that Hurlegurgnon!, when employed in certain contexts, has distinctly medical applications. If pushed I would even suggest that the Coronary Arterial Bypass Graft procedure itself should be renamed "the Hurlegurgnon Gambit" - I will give that one to the World Health Organization for free.
Anyway, recently, while skimming at pace through a Kindle ebook about ancient languages, it struck me - admittedly more like being flicked with a wet towel than being hit by a bolt of lightning, but struck me nonetheless - just how many these rich and colorful words are erased from human memory each day by the triumph of dreary modern diction. The English language, for example, could once boast many bizarre words, borrowed from now defunct foreign cultures, to build its own distinct vocabulary. Unfortunately many of these jaw-fracturing, multi-syllabic nouns, verbs and adjectives are now forgotten or ignored. Employ any obscure word with a Pictish root in conversation, for example, and your interlocutor will simply assume that you are in the preliminary stages of belching up an entire haggis. Similarly, although not as offensively guttural, using a Norman French word will merely convince others that you are making a euphemistic reference to the bathroom, when you were actually complimenting the new tapestry on their living room wall.
Of all the words that medieval Norman French contributed to the English language, Hurlegurgnon! is the most underused. Indeed, the word is so rare that I might be accused of merely inventing it to provide readable fodder for my humble blog. But why would a simple scribe such as I resort to such linguistic tricks, especially when the words means something absolutely repulsive and unpleasant?
Indeed, saying Hurlegurgnon! is so rude and impolite that I have only ever uttered it twice in public: once when I hit myself in the eye with an exploding cork from a misdirected champagne bottle; and secondly, and most memorably, when a surgeon removed three plastic feeder tubes from my poor stomach with three swift tugs. "Hurlegurgnon!" I cried as the alien apparatus slithered between my intestines and popped out of my body.
"I'm sorry but did you say something just now?" the surgeon asked.
"Yes. I'm afraid I yelled Hurlegurgnon!" I admitted.
"Nobody's ever come out with that before," he said laughing. "What is it, some sort of foreign swear word?"
"It was French about a thousand years ago." I explained. "But it got assimilated into English when the Normans invaded before falling out of common usage." I explained. "So, yeah, basically I guess you could call Hurlegurgnon! an archaic foreign swear word. It's the kind of thing an eleventh century French knight might have said as he fell into a Saxon shield-wall. And later his descendants might have muttered it under their breath when dealing with surly English tenant farmers."
"I see," he nodded. "So what does Hurlegurgnon! actually mean?"
"I'll tell you after the nurses have left." I said. "The definition is unsuitable for airing in mixed company, even if that mixed company does spend much of its working day coping with some extremely grotesque and disgusting problems."
Alas, the surgeon's pager immediately summoned him to another part of the hospital before I could impart the information, so I suppose he remains ignorant of the meaning to this day. A shame, really, since most lexicographers would conclude that Hurlegurgnon!, when employed in certain contexts, has distinctly medical applications. If pushed I would even suggest that the Coronary Arterial Bypass Graft procedure itself should be renamed "the Hurlegurgnon Gambit" - I will give that one to the World Health Organization for free.
The Food Puritan
Traditional Thanksgiving dinner at my house always involved a traditional trip to a friend's house to enjoy their traditional Thanksgiving dinner instead of cooking my own. After all, eating other people's food is how the first Thanksgiving was celebrated, so my parasitism had a certain air of authenticity. And besides, who needs a ransacked turkey carcass dripping cold fat all over the fridge for days on end?
Nevertheless, I usually brought some sort of offering with me when invited elsewhere, no matter how paltry or inedible: a price-stickerless bottle of red wine unsuitable for a white-meat meal, for example; or perhaps an almond gateau from whatever bakery had anything left and was still open at the eleventh hour; maybe even a small selection of Viennese wafers if I struck out at the bakery and got really desperate. For some reason, those last two items, despite being de rigueur desserts at any Austro-Hungarian festivity, never seemed very popular at a Yankee dinner table dominated by withered pumpkins, a cranberry sauce bog, "squash," and a holiday theme plate heaped with arid slabs of roughhewn turkey: the stuffed and basted totem of most Thanksgiving celebrations.
Turkey, as any gourmand knows all too well, is a meat only slightly more flavorful than a pair of wooden clogs fitted with odor-eating charcoal insoles. Continental chefs have tried lathering its trussed body with all manner of exotic herbs and fragrant spices, but the bird's stubborn flesh remains about as mouthwatering as a dusty stick of gray chalk. Anyone who has ever attempted to submerge shards of turkey in a lake of gravy will be aware of its absorbent properties. In the past, I have even used uneaten drumsticks or the odd wing as a makeshift loofah when showering, since they are very convenient for those hard to reach places. Of course, everything changes after marriage: I no longer recycle Thanksgiving leftovers as bathtub accessories, obviously; but most importantly, I now bring proper food and booze with me instead of just store-bought snacks and booze. And this year I'm not only married but also suffer with a heart condition, so that makes everything double-different.
Soy protein is not a substance usually associated with the Pilgrim Fathers. Indeed, tofu, seitan and tempeh sound more like origami folds made during the creation of a decorative paper turkey rather than sauteed entree substitutes for a real, roasted bird. Nevertheless, an artfully marinated soy protein loaf makes a healthy and unique addition to any Thanksgiving feast. Tempeh, in particular, has a pleasing chestnutty taste and texture. A pretentious person such as myself might even describe tempeh as exhibiting certain autumnal qualities: an ideal companion, then, for non-buttered Brussels sprouts and other low-sodium sides. I wouldn't recommend bringing a tofu or seitan dish, however, since they are both extremely bland. In fact, you might just as well eat a paper turkey for all the piquancy you'll find in those poor examples of the bean curdler's art.
So this year I am thankful for tempeh; and low-fat frozen yogurt; and whole grain crackers; and organic root vegetables; and the fruits of New England's orchards; and red wine, naturally; and a large slice of Almond gateau - - yes, even diners with heart diseases are allowed to cheat on their diets at Thanksgiving.
Nevertheless, I usually brought some sort of offering with me when invited elsewhere, no matter how paltry or inedible: a price-stickerless bottle of red wine unsuitable for a white-meat meal, for example; or perhaps an almond gateau from whatever bakery had anything left and was still open at the eleventh hour; maybe even a small selection of Viennese wafers if I struck out at the bakery and got really desperate. For some reason, those last two items, despite being de rigueur desserts at any Austro-Hungarian festivity, never seemed very popular at a Yankee dinner table dominated by withered pumpkins, a cranberry sauce bog, "squash," and a holiday theme plate heaped with arid slabs of roughhewn turkey: the stuffed and basted totem of most Thanksgiving celebrations.
Turkey, as any gourmand knows all too well, is a meat only slightly more flavorful than a pair of wooden clogs fitted with odor-eating charcoal insoles. Continental chefs have tried lathering its trussed body with all manner of exotic herbs and fragrant spices, but the bird's stubborn flesh remains about as mouthwatering as a dusty stick of gray chalk. Anyone who has ever attempted to submerge shards of turkey in a lake of gravy will be aware of its absorbent properties. In the past, I have even used uneaten drumsticks or the odd wing as a makeshift loofah when showering, since they are very convenient for those hard to reach places. Of course, everything changes after marriage: I no longer recycle Thanksgiving leftovers as bathtub accessories, obviously; but most importantly, I now bring proper food and booze with me instead of just store-bought snacks and booze. And this year I'm not only married but also suffer with a heart condition, so that makes everything double-different.
Soy protein is not a substance usually associated with the Pilgrim Fathers. Indeed, tofu, seitan and tempeh sound more like origami folds made during the creation of a decorative paper turkey rather than sauteed entree substitutes for a real, roasted bird. Nevertheless, an artfully marinated soy protein loaf makes a healthy and unique addition to any Thanksgiving feast. Tempeh, in particular, has a pleasing chestnutty taste and texture. A pretentious person such as myself might even describe tempeh as exhibiting certain autumnal qualities: an ideal companion, then, for non-buttered Brussels sprouts and other low-sodium sides. I wouldn't recommend bringing a tofu or seitan dish, however, since they are both extremely bland. In fact, you might just as well eat a paper turkey for all the piquancy you'll find in those poor examples of the bean curdler's art.
So this year I am thankful for tempeh; and low-fat frozen yogurt; and whole grain crackers; and organic root vegetables; and the fruits of New England's orchards; and red wine, naturally; and a large slice of Almond gateau - - yes, even diners with heart diseases are allowed to cheat on their diets at Thanksgiving.
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