There are words I can’t remember, words that are new to me, words, so many words, in Spanish. Some are common— the word for pillow, the word for walk, or avenue, or lose. Then there are the words I’ve struggled to remember but rarely need; chief among them is the word for artichoke.
For weeks this summer I tried to spontaneously remember it. I would turn to my husband while we were walking somewhere and ask, Alchafoca? And he would say, No. Aclofocha? And again, No. Achalafo?
Oh my, oh no.
Hours later I grabbed him by the shoulders: Alcachofa. Tears in my eyes. Yes, my dear. That is the word for artichoke.
If this problem had been his problem, with English, he might have asked Archicope? Achripoke? Articoke?
But it is my problem, in Spanish, where my stupidity is still hidden from me.