Cognate Cognizance Podcast

coquetry — flirtation

coquetería — the Spanish cognate of the same meaning

Do people even say “flirting” anymore? I tend to hear the much more violent-sounding term of “hitting on” being used, as in “He’s hitting on me.” But I prefer the gentler sounding “flirting with,” as in “He’s flirting with me.”

I used to be quite the flirt in my younger days. In other words, I was a “coquette.”

“Coquette” is a French word that we’ve borrowed and added to our language, and it’s the feminine version of “coquet.” “Coquet,” the masculine version, literally means small rooster, or small cock. Yep, small cock, as “the cock crows” —get your head out of the gutter. Ha, ha.

Since a rooster likes to strut and parade around the hen house, showing off for the ladies, the French started referring to men who did the same thing as “little roosters” or “little cocks.” Thus, the word “coquet” was born.

Not too many people know that “coquet” in English can be used as a verb meaning “to flirt” or “to act like a coquet.” Thus, you could say, “He’s coquetting with me.” In Spanish, there is a cognate for that verb; it is “coquetear.” The same sentence would be, “Él está coqueteando conmigo.” Doesn’t that sound so much prettier than “He’s hitting on me?” I think so. It even sounds prettier than “He’s flirting with me.”

Why we English-speaking people felt the need to come up with the word “flirt” instead of just using “coquet,” I don’t know; in fact, the word “flirt” has an unknown etymology, so we should have just stuck with using “coquet.”

Arguably, “flirt” does have other meanings and usages not having to do with the art of “coquetry,” so we could keep the word for those meanings and then use “coquet” for its lone meaning of being a flirt, or being a coquette.

On the other hand, thinking of myself as a little rooster doesn’t sound so attractive — it’s almost as bad as being referred to as a “chick.” Ugh. Language can be so infuriating even while being so beautiful. Hmmm, just like a little rooster, I guess.

Are you a “coquette” or a “coquet” or did you used to be one? Have your skills of “coquetry” become rusty? Mine have, but that’s okay. I’m quite content to no longer be a “chick” chased after by all the “coquets.”

Until next time. Please share this newsletter with anyone you know who has an interest in learning about words.

Tammy Marshall

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lucent — an adjective meaning “shining” or glowing with light

luciente — the Spanish cognate of the same meaning

These words come to us from Latin’s lucere which means “to shine.” When taking a Spanish language course, the vocabulary word “luz” will come up fairly early on.

“Luz” means “light” as in the thing that glows, not the kind of meal you should be eating when on a diet — that “light” is “ligero.”

When pluralized, “luz” becomes “luces” and its connection to “lucent” becomes more obvious with that central “c.” In Spanish, any noun that ends with a “z” changes that “z” to a “c” before adding the plural ending of “es.” Thus, you also see “actrices” for the plural of “actriz” (actress) and “peces” for the plural of “pez” (fish).

“Lucid” also comes from the same Latin root, and its Spanish cognate is “lúcido.” “Lucid” also means “shining” or “bright,” but we more often use it to refer to one’s clarity of thoughts or dreams. It’s a word that doctors throw out when diagnosing elderly people to say that they are or are not “lucid” anymore.

The word “pellucid” means that light can shine through something without being distorted much. It also goes back to that Latin verb for “to shine” and literally means that something “shines through.”

“Translucent” deals with another manner of allowing light to shine through something. That “trans” means “crossing” or “through,” so the “lucent” part then goes through the object. In Spanish, this word is “translúcido” or “translúcida,” depending on the gender of the noun it is describing.

If you “elucidate” something, you make it “lucid,” or clear — you bring light to it, in a figurative sense.

Oddly enough, “Lucifer” means “light-bearing.” While most of us now associate this name with the Devil, seemingly the polar opposite of anything bearing light, the name can also be used to refer to the planet Venus when it appears as the morning star and brings us light.

There are other English words that hearken back to lucere, and I think you can probably think of a few more on your own. If the initial intent behind the word was to bring light to something in some fashion, then look for that Latin word in its etymology.

I hope I’ve been lucid with my explanations here and that there is a lucent glow about you right now as you bask in your newfound wisdom. Ha, ha. Seriously, though, I do hope you are learning a thing or two from these posts.

I am going to limit them to once a week from now on as I concentrate on finishing the first draft and edit of my fifth novel and continue to add to my second newsletter, “Tomes and Topics.” Please check it out here: tomesandtopics.substack.com.

Until next time.

Tammy Marshall

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nubilous — cloudy or foggy or misty; essentially something obscure

nublado — the Spanish cognate that means “cloudy”

“Nubilous” popped up on my phone yesterday because I subscribe to the word of the day from dictionary.com. When it did, my mouth literally gaped open.

I taught Spanish for 30 years and never knew this word existed!

I taught vocabulary for weather expressions over and over and over for all those years and saw how students struggled to equate the word “nublado” with the English word “cloudy” because there isn’t any sort of easy correlation between those words.

Oh, but clearly there is! In fact, there’s a perfectly obvious correlation between the word “nubilous” and “nublado!”

Ugh. I was so disgusted with myself for not having any prior knowledge of the word “nubilous” until yesterday that I wanted to save any of you who are reading this right now from that same disgust — unless you happen to know the word “nubilous” already, and if you do, I’m both very happy for you and very jealous of you in an annoyed-with-myself fashion.

“Nubilous” and “nublado” both come from the Latin word of nubes which means “clouds.” “Nubes” is also the Spanish word for “clouds,” and I’ve known and taught that word for years, too, but our words of “clouds” and “cloudy” come to us from Old English. Thus, the reason there isn’t any easy correlation between “nublado” and “cloudy” for students of the Spanish language to pick up on.

However, if I’d known the word “nubilous” for all those years, I would have also been teaching my kids that word in order to help the word “nublado” click in their heads. Other weather words like “sol” for “sun” and “frío” for “cold” were easy for them to associate with our words of “solar” and “frigid” or “freezing,” but “nublado” always gave them a struggle.

It only I’d known the word “nubilous.” It’s not in my hardback copy of Random House’s dictionary because it’s not a commonly used English word, so I don’t feel too horrible for not knowing the word prior to yesterday because I started teaching back when any reference I needed to do was still done using physical copies of books. Once I’d established my base for teaching weather-related vocabulary all those years ago, I didn’t need to vary it much and I never thought to look online later for a cognate for “cloudy,” so I won’t beat myself up too much about it.

Now that I know of the word “nubilous” though, I didn’t want to waste anytime in telling you about it. As fate would have it, too, it is very cloudy out right now.

It’s a cloudy day. Es un día nublado.

Until next time. Please consider subscribing to my other newsletter featuring my writings at tomesandtopics.substack.com.

Tammy Marshall

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basilica — for the purposes of this entry, a basilica is simply a large Roman Catholic church that has been given special ceremonial privileges and is the church that the Pope would visit if he were in the area

basílica — the Spanish cognate of the same meaning

I’m not a Catholic, so I won’t even pretend to understand the workings of that religion; however, I did teach Spanish for 30 years, and a large majority of Spanish-speaking people practice Catholicism. During that time, I visited Mexico City twice — once with other teachers and once with a group of my students. Included in both trips was a visit to the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

Guadalupe is the patroness saint of Mexico, and the shrine to her is housed in the Basilica pictured above — the one with the bluish roof. To the left you can see the original Basilica, but you can’t go inside of it anymore. The walls are cracked, and the building is unstable.

The Basilica can hold 10,000 people for each mass, and there are many masses held each day. Devout people approach the shrine on knees, some of them having crawled for miles to reach the site. When I was there with my students, I had to chastise a few who were openly staring at people doing that.

Prior to traveling abroad, I didn’t know what a basilica was. Now, I’ve been to the Basilica in Mexico City, to Saint Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City, and to a couple basilicas in Spain, including the massive one that is still under construction in Barcelona — the Sagrada Familia.

Originally, basilica only referred to four certain churches in Rome. Those are now called the Major Basilicas — Saint Peter’s is one of them — and the other basilicas around the world are known as Minor Basilicas. The one in Mexico City is a minor basilica even though it is immensely important to the people of Mexico.

The word “basilica” comes down to us from Greek and then into Latin and then into Spanish. English has borrowed the word from there. Interestingly, though, the word originally had nothing to do with churches or religion. It came from a Greek adjective that meant “royal” and there was a public building in the city of Thera that had a “royal portico.”

When other buildings, including later churches, were modeled on that building, the name “basilica” was born.

Now that we are in the season of Lent, many Catholics around the world are visiting basilicas. You don’t have to be a devout Catholic, though, to visit one as I’ve explained above. Even though I’m not very religious, I enjoy seeing cathedrals and basilicas as well as other ornate churches when I travel, and I really enjoy learning the stories behind them.

If you go to Mexico City, be sure to visit the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

Until next time. If you enjoy this newsletter, please recommend it to others, and please consider subscribing to my other newsletter where I share my writings. It’s a paid subscription, but I think it’s worth it. It can be found here: Tomes and Topics.

Tammy Marshall

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clement — an adjective meaning merciful or mild

clemente — the Spanish cognate of the same meanings.

“Clement” goes back to Latin’s clemens which also meant “mild.” If you happen to be a literary fan, you might recognize that as the real last name of a famous American writer. He was best known as Mark Twain, but his real name was Samuel Langhorne Clemens.

Our cognate duo is the perfect word to describe the weather we’ve been having this winter here in Nebraska. Normally, we battle subzero temperatures for months along with blizzards, ice, and relentless wind. We’ve had incredibly “clement” weather because it’s been unseasonably warm all winter.

Typically, we tend to use the antonym of “inclement” more often to describe the crappy weather, and people don’t usually say that the weather is being “clement,” but that’s exactly what it’s doing. “Inclement” simply means that something is not being mild or not showing mercy.

The noun of “clemency” also has an easy cognate in Spanish — “clemencia.” This is an act of mercy. Usually, we use this word to describe a judge who shows “clemency” in passing a lenient sentence.

Both “clement” and “clemency” can be used to discuss a judge or the weather, as long as those two things are being lenient on us.

Not only did one of our most treasured American writers have the last name of Clemens, but fourteen popes used the name Clement, and the first of them became a saint! Were they all known for their clemency? I’m not Catholic, nor do I know much about papal history, but it would be interesting to find out.

If you are a baseball fan, you might have thought of Roberto Clemente when you first saw the Spanish cognate above. When studying Spanish in a high school, it’s common for textbooks to have small write-ups about famous Hispanic people, so Roberto Clemente comes up. He was from Puerto Rico, but he played professional baseball for the Pittsburgh Pirates, and he was very philanthropic. Sadly, he died at the age of 38 in a plane crash while trying to deliver aid supplies to earthquake victims in Nicaragua. I do believe his last name suited him.

I’m going to stop here and go outside to enjoy this clement weather. In Spanish that would be “tiempo clemente.”

Until next time.

Tammy Marshall

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sanguine — an adjective meaning optimistic or ruddy of complexion or bloodthirsty or related by blood

sanguíneo — the masculine Spanish cognate of the same meanings

sanguínea — the feminine Spanish cognate

“Sanguine” must have been one of Jane Austen’s favorite adjectives because she used it repeatedly in her works. I recently read Mansfield Park and stumbled upon “sanguine” over and over to describe certain characters’ optimistic outlooks.

“Sanguine” is primarily used in English to signify that someone is “optimistic,” but the word’s origin is a bloody one. In fact, if you look up “sanguine” in a thesaurus, you’ll find words like “bloodthirsty,” “homicidal,” “murderous,” and “bloody.” Those seem a far cry from the word’s more commonly used meaning of “optimistic!”

Hmm, perhaps Jane Austen was describing her characters as bloodthirsty instead! Ha, ha. That would make for a VERY different reading of Mansfield Park.

Like many words we share with Spanish, “sanguine” goes back to the Latin word sanguineus meaning “relating to blood.” So, how did we come to equate blood with optimism? Apparently, back in the Middle Ages, people believed their health and dispositions were controlled by four bodily fluids — blood, phlegm, black bile, and yellow bile.

Are you grossed out yet?

Anyhoo, if you had too much blood in your system, you had a cheerful, or optimistic, demeanor. Too much phlegm? That meant you were lazy. Excess bile? Depended on the color. Yellow: hot-tempered. Black: gloomy. Like Eeyore.

All that excess blood you were running around with would show up in your complexion and give you a ruddy look, and that made you appear good-humored instead of angry looking for some odd reason.

Knowing “sanguine” and its connection to “blood” comes in handy when learning Spanish because the much more common word of “blood” in Spanish is “sangre.” This could come in handy if you ever end up in the hospital in a Spanish-speaking locale and they need to know your “tipo de sangre.”

Clearly, “blood” and “sangre” are not cognates, but knowing “sangre” will help you learn and recall English words like “sanguine” and words similar to it such as “sanguinary,” “sanguineous,” and “sanguinolent,” which all have to do with “blood.”

“Blood,” by the way, comes directly to us from Old English.

Knowing “sangre” in Spanish can help you remember the word “sangría,” which is an incredibly delicious, sweet red wine that usually has fruit in it. It’s called thus because of its blood-red coloring.

Additionally, you may be familiar with the French word we’ve adopted to mean that someone is cool and calm under strain. That word is “sangfroid,” and it literally means “cold blood” but not in the killer sort of way. It simply means that your blood stays cool under pressure; thus, you have “sangfroid.”

Whether you enjoy reading Jane Austen’s novels or you like to drink different types of wine (or do both at the same time!), knowing a word like “sanguine” and its variety of meanings can help you improve your vocabulary in two languages — more, to be honest, because the words for “blood” in Italian, French, and Portuguese are all cognates of “sangre.”

Until next time. Please share this newsletter with others who may like to subscribe. Thanks.

Tammy Marshall

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transcend — this is a verb that is used to show that something goes above or beyond the norm; to surpass or excel

transcender — the Spanish cognate of the same meaning

A few years ago I discovered American “Transcendentalism” through the writings of Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau when I had an advanced junior level English class thrust upon me at the very start of a new school year. Why I didn’t have much prior experience with these two men’s writings is something I’ve been asking myself ever since. While I initially (and even continually) grumbled about having that class dumped into my lap literally one day before school started, I am forever grateful that it happened because I was forced to teach, and thus learn for myself, about Emerson and Thoreau. In addition, I taught some of Emily Dickinson’s poetry, but I was already familiar with her work. This all happened because the junior year of English, at least at the school where I taught, focuses on American Literature, which I normally pride myself on being pretty well read in, but, as I already mentioned, for some reason I had not read (or didn’t remember reading, at least) any of Emerson’s essays or Thoreau’s glorious Walden.

In my defense, I had heard of Walden, but I hadn’t read it. I’ve now read it three times, and I want to read it again. I’m slowly working my way through all of Emerson’s writings as well, on my own, savoring all of his wisdom. The Transcendentalist movement speaks to me because it so closely mirrors many of my own deep thoughts, especially where thinking for oneself is the crux of things. It could well be that I did read Emerson in my early years of study at a time when I wasn’t mature enough to appreciate, treasure, and relate to what he had to say — by the time I taught the aforementioned class, though, I was 50, so I was definitely mature enough.

Here is a cute and very simplified breakdown of Five pillars of Transcendentalism if you are interested.

Prior to becoming focused on the works of the Transcendental writers, my main experience with the word “transcend” came from religious readings and motivational speakers. It applies well to sports, too, where athletes are asked to “transcend” their limitations and really push themselves to excel in ways they might not think they were capable of doing.

“Transcend” works very well from English to Spanish in all its forms because it is one of the purest cognates out there. It comes to us from Latin’s transcendere which means “to climb across:” climb across that limitation, whether literal or figurative, that is in your path. You can see that in Spanish, the final “e” is simply dropped from the Latin word to get “transcender.”

The other forms of the verb that we use as other parts of speech have very clear cognates in Spanish, too. The nouns of “transcendence” and “transcendentalism” become “transcendencia” and “transcendentalismo;” the adjectives of “transcendental” and “transcendent” become “transcendental” and “transcendente;” and the adverb of “transcendentally” becomes “transcendentalmente.” There are a few other noun forms, but you see the cognate pattern. Since the root is in Latin, the Italian and French words for all of these are also cognates.

Nowadays, people use the prefix trans- as an abbreviated word (“trans”) to refer to someone who is transgender or transsexual; however, the prefix trans- means that something goes across or beyond. That’s why we have transatlantic cruises that go across the Atlantic ocean and why we have transportation that carries us across the ground or through the air and why we have transmissions that take our messages and carry them across the miles to other places and why we have translation that takes a message in one language and carries it across to another language and so on and so on.

The majority of words in English that begin with the prefix of trans- come to us straight from Latin, so those words typically all have very easily recognized Spanish (Italian and French) cognates. (“transmisiόn,” “transporte,” “transatlántico,” etc.)

When we “transcend” we go above and beyond. You don’t have to read Emerson or Thoreau to take your thoughts to “transcendental” places, but sometimes it helps to have the lexicon to help you get there. If you prefer not to read this “transcription” (“transcripciόn”), remember that there is a recording at the top of the page of me reading it to you.

Until next time. Please share this with others who might like to subscribe.

Tammy Marshall

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maestro — an eminent composer, teacher, or conductor of music; a master at something

maestro — the Spanish, Italian, and French cognates of the same meaning

“Maestro” comes to us from Latin’s magister, which means “master.” It changed into “maestro” in the Italian language, from which we borrowed the word, and we can see that Spanish and French did as well.

When learning the Spanish language, a word that you will learn very early on, if you are learning the language in a traditional classroom setting at least, is the word “maestro” and its feminine form of “maestra” for “teacher.” “Profesor” and “Profesora” also exist and are easy to remember because they are very obvious cognates of “professor.”

“Maestro” kind of eludes young students because they don’t see the connection to the word “teacher.”

However, when you realize that to be a teacher of something, you need to have mastered that subject, then making the connection between “master” and “maestro” is fairly easy. In fact, when you look up the word “master” on merriam-webster.com, you will see that the very first definition for “master” is “a male teacher.”

The meaning immediately following that one is “a person holding an academic degree higher than a bachelor's but lower than a doctor's.” Many teachers, including me, have master’s degrees. It’s called that to show that you are now a master in your subject — you are skilled and proficient in your craft.

In English, when we hear the word “maestro,” I think most people immediately picture a person leading a grand orchestra on a massive stage as the orchestra plays something by Beethoven. If you imagine such a person, that’s fine, actually, because you know that for him to be a conductor of such an impressive orchestra, he has thoroughly mastered his craft.

Thus, you can imagine a teacher who has also mastered her craft, so she has the title of “Maestra” in Spanish.

In English, we use the word “masterpiece” to indicate that a painting, a composition, a play, a movie, etc. is either its creator’s very best creation or is simply a truly impressive piece of work. This can also be called a “masterwork.”

The word “master” can have a negative connotation, though, when it’s used to show that you have dominance over others. “Maestro,” on the other hand, does not, even though it technically means “master.” “Maestro” signifies a person who is a master of his craft, and it can also be used as a respectful title of address for that person.

Personally, I like that Spanish uses this word to refer to a teacher because it conveys a level of respect that the word “teacher” in English does not have, in my opinion. “Professor” does, but “teacher” does not. I like being called “Maestra.” It sounds important, whereas a student addressing me as “Teacher” sounds a bit disrespectful.

Words and the underlying things they convey can be weird, I know, but they are still fun, and I hope I’m doing a small part to make you more of a “maestro” of language.

If you’ve been enjoying my writing here and would like to read and hear more from me, please consider at least a one-month subscription to my other newsletter called “Tomes and Topics” where I share some humorous commentary about a different topic each week as well as some of my writing (poems, fiction pieces, essays, etc.) about the same topic. Find it here: tomesandtopics.substack.com

Until next time.

Tammy Marshall

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volant — an adjective meaning that something is flying or capable of flying

volante — the Spanish cognate of the same meaning

When you learn Spanish, you will usually come upon the verb “volar,” which means “to fly.” “Volar” comes straight from the Latin verb volare which also means “to fly.” If you are a music buff, you might recognize “Volare” as the title of a song written and sung originally by Domenico Modugno that has been redone by many artists including Dean Martin, Bobby Rydell, and The Gipsy Kings (my favorite version).

You can enjoy their version here: "Volare"

In English, the word “volar” also exists, but it’s an adjective describing something that is used for flight. (This isn’t the commonly used meaning of “volar,” as I explain below.)

Interestingly, the word “volante” in Spanish can also be a noun, and when it is, one of its meanings is “steering wheel.” That was my first encounter ever with the word, years ago when I was first learning Spanish. Then I learned “volar,” and I had a hard time thinking of “volar” as “to fly” since I’d learned “volante” as a “steering wheel.” I finally pictured myself figuratively “flying” down the highway at top speed while clutching the “volante” of my little Chevy Chevette, and that helped the two words click for me.

The word “volante” does exist in English, too, but it is used exclusively in music direction when you want the music to move with light rapidity. In other words, you want it to “fly” like a little birdie.

Along with “volante,” the words “volant” and “volar” are not commonly used in English, so it can be hard to make that cognate connection; however, the word “volatile” is very common. That’s right, “volatile” comes from the same Latin base as “volant” and “volar.” In fact, its original meaning was to describe animals and insects that could fly.

Over time, though, the word “volatile” has changed quite a bit, and we use it more often to describe something that can change unexpectedly. If you imagine a person with a quick temper, though, and you assign the expression “fly off the handle” to that person, then you can associate “volatile” with “flying,” and that can help you make the connection with “volant” and “volar.”

The more commonly used definition in English for “volar,” though, has nothing to do with flying. “Volar” is used to describe something that is located on the palm of your hand or the sole of you foot, and it comes from a totally different Latin word. Instances like this make learning a language both utterly frustrating and utterly fascinating — in my humble opinion, at least.

While I don’t like to fly, it is a very common mode of transportation, and knowing basic vocabulary for it helps with travel planning. If you are taking a trip to any Spanish-speaking country and find yourself at the airport, you may find the word “vuelo” useful. “Vuelo” means “flight,” as in your flight number. It also means “I fly.” I thought I’d throw that in just in case you’d like to be a bit more confused. Ha, ha.

Overall, recognizing the similarities between two very common languages will help you get by in life and get around in the world.

Enjoy this clip of Sinatra. "Come Fly With Me." It could easily be my mantra for Cognate Cognizance. Fly with me through the wondrous world of words.

Until next time. Please share this with others and encourage them to subscribe.

Thanks.

Tammy Marshall

Thank you for reading Cognate Cognizance. This post is public so feel free to share it.

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atrocious — an adjective to describe something that is shockingly cruel or utterly appalling

atroz — the Spanish cognate of the same meaning

ferocious — an adjective to describe someone or something who is given to unrestrained brutality

feroz — the Spanish cognate of the same meaning

Normally, I stray nowhere near politics in the things I write, but today I’m making a small exception in relation to the words I’ve chosen. Yes, I chose to highlight them because of the exceedingly “atrocious” events that are unfolding across the world in the Ukraine right now. The people there are suffering “ferocious” attacks. My heart goes out to them.

All right, I’ll leave the politicizing behind now to focus on these words. Since they have similar meanings, it works well to learn their Spanish cognates together. Additionally, their Spanish cognates have similar spellings, so it makes it easier to learn them as a pair.

At first glance, “atroz” might not look like the cognate to “atrocious” since it is much shorter, but when you see “feroz” as the cognate to “ferocious,” a pattern emerges. These are two or only a few cognate pairs that work like this between English and Spanish (another is “precoz” for “precocious”), so it’s not a far-reaching pattern, but it’s a pattern nevertheless. If you imagine the “c” in the two English words as a “z” instead and then just lop off the rest of each word, then voilà, you now have the Spanish words. Isn’t this fun?

Hmm, perhaps the word “fun” shouldn’t be used in a discussion of words like “atrocious” and “ferocious,” but using it to describe playing with words is quite fitting, in my opinion.

Time for a mini, and dare I say fun?, Spanish lesson using the words “atroz” and “feroz.” These are both adjectives, and in Spanish when you use an adjective, it must match the gender and number of whatever noun it’s describing. There’s no need to change either of these words for gender, though, because they happen to stay the same no matter if the noun is masculine or feminine; however, if the noun is plural, something interesting happens.

In Spanish, when a noun or an adjective that ends in a “z” needs to become plural, that final “z” becomes the letter “c” and then you add “es.” Thus, you get “atroces” and “feroces.” There’s that letter “c” that we see in our English versions of the words! So, if you wanted to say “ferocious animals” in Spanish, you’d say “animales feroces,” and if you wanted to say “atrocious acts,” you’d say “actos atroces.” I specifically chose nouns that were cognates so that those examples would be clearer. (And if we had some “precocious princesses” we’d call them “princesas precoces.”)

When you take the adjectives and make them nouns, you get “atrocity” and “ferocity.” Their Spanish cognates are “atrocidad” and “ferocidad.” And if you’re playing along well, perhaps you’ve already correctly surmised that “precocity” would be “precocidad” in Spanish. Admit it, you’re having fun, right?

That’s it for today. I’ll be here hoping that you are neither “atroz” nor “feroz,” but I certainly hope you were “precoz” in your younger years.

Tammy Marshall

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