I guess Boston has everything.
The other evening, Amanda and I were enjoying a small visit with some dear friends. We were sitting around their hip-looking, modern-esque living room (its style is one I envy: its openness and clean lines), and we were sharing a good bottle of Riesling, a bucket of something called Chivda, and a plate of chocolate and peanut butter squares, made by yours truly.
Amanda was recounting her recent trip to Boston, in which she was finally able to satisfy a small bit of her boundless love for ethnic foods: Cuban, German, Haitian, Indian, to name several.
I guess Boston has everything.
And as you might expect, the conversation stayed focused on the topic of food. That’s what happens when you’re with cultured people, eating cultured things such as Chivda sounds—for the record, I used Reduced Fat Jif, the crunchy kind—until there came the smallest lull, allowing Amanda to confess her exciting dietary adventures.
She’d been a tad antsy, eager to share.
So she did.
“I finally got to eat Ethiopian.”
This, of course, was roundly applauded, and with genuine interest, I began to ask for specifics. What was it like? Was it even real food? Because, aren’t they kind of known as a country without food?
I couldn’t imagine what they authentically ate, and I found it ironic that though the country itself is constantly on the verge of agricultural collapse and starvation, a few of them have managed to come to America and open up a restaurant to cook food for us.
Still, I honestly wanted to know what authentic Ethiopian food was like. I honestly wanted to know every detail about this particular dining experience.
So, she told me, us.
Apparently, they pile all their food on top of a large table of bread, and you eat everything in sight. Possibly, even the chair and napkin, should you be given one.
And also you use your hands.
I want to say “Gross!” but I wouldn’t mean it. Secretly, germ-conscious as I can be, I would love nothing more than to squish peas through my fingers, or to cup a handful of goat cheese up to my mouth and shove it in, sans-utensils.
But, and chide me later if you consider this misleading in retrospect, the conversation came to a full halt when Amanda replied that the food, the experience, the actual Ethiopian meal was…well, not authentic as much as it was authentic-ish.
Authentic-ish.
The word, in and of itself, isn’t really the issue, but that manmade suffix…is.
Because I hear it all the time.
My students, my friends, passers-by, that ridiculous trollop of a Wal-Mart Associate from last night who insisted on giving me a buggy despite the fact that I even took the time to tell her I was only getting a half-gallon of skim milk…that little -ish is everywhere.
We’ve become a society of opinionated adjective-pushers.
I mean, this, this, it’s becoming an epidemic. Or, epidemic-ish.
And yet, it’s complete and utter genius.
Because its overall purpose, I now see, is to function in daily conversation as a general whitewash. An excuse of non-description by engaging all descriptions. Tacking that –ish onto any and every word known to Man is both answering the question and closing the subject, at the same time.
My grandmother for years harped and nagged about the “ugliness” of people who cursed. Her reason: it negated their ability to find a creative way to express themselves. Instead of describing the pain, the event, the whatever, people would scream out one obscenity or profanity after another. If they’d take the time to think it through, blah, blah, blah…right?
That was my first reaction to this –ish business…until the other night.
Because really, what did I expect? They were Ethiopians living in America. Are they really going to go whole hog on the authenticity of the nutritional habits of their people? I doubt it. How could they? They’d probably be shut down by the FDA. They’ve done what all ethnic and cultural entrepreneurs have done when they emgirate: they Americanized.
Which, in turn, gives rise to the handiness of that little peckerwood of a suffix –ish. Because that was in fact the correct descriptor to her “cuisine experience.” She was eating authentic-ish Ethiopian food.
And the deeper beauty of –ish is that it isn’t relegated only to eating.
No, not by a long shot.
I teach students who appear to be serious-ish about passing, I’ve been in love-ish before, and god knows, I’ve spent a few too many nights, drunk-ish, texting everyone in my phone, even my mother, talking about any number of stupid things from recipes to recalling an old feud between me and a friend over a broken tambourine.
There are even days when I’m thankful for that little –ish.
When I’m just sick-ish instead of having the stomach virus. When I’m sad-ish but my heart’s not broken. When the day’s OK-ish, but it’s not bad.
You know what I’m talking about, and you agree. Don’t you?
At least, sort of-ish?
Yeah, I thought you would…even if -ish just a little.
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