An interesting incident took place the other day. My mother had gotten some tamarinds, and when she mentioned this to me, I had to volunteer a fun fact; obviously. What came to mind was: did you know they’re related to oranges? What a statement, huh?
I could see the skepticism on my mother’s face and heard it in her voice as she inquired further, eager to see how deep my pit of lies was. She could tell that both were acidic, but that did not lend credence to my statement. I knew I had made a grave error when she got the tamarinds out of the shopping bag, the thready legumes not at all what I had in mind. To make matters worse, I knew what they were; therefore no excuse could unpickle me here.
I frantically wracked my brain for the appropriate term, wondering what that citrus’ name was, the offending party in this fiasco. I knew it was a language, and I knew it was East Asian, and a substitute for Chinese, but I didn’t know what it was.
I finally had to give in and scour the web for the appropriate name, and a smack should have been in order; how on Earth do you mix up mandarins and tamarinds? Well, I don’t know, but I never will again.
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