Origins of Expressions: Part 1

I am a lover of expressions and really nice hard cheese. I try to use expressions when I talk as often as I can to spice up mundane conversations or to make time pass or to "appear all smart and stuff" - one time I used an expression to win a bet and another time I pulled an expression out of my hat (not literally, though that does sound like fun) to save an awkward dance party and,  yet another time, I used a particularly fancy and uppity expression to woo a lady (I also wooed a number of animals and my up-till-that-point-heterosexual male mail carrier at the same time but that is a story for another day). This is the first in a series of pieces where I explore some common expressions and figures of speech and attempt to unveil their true meanings and their often unexpected origins. I know some of my explanations may come as a surprise to you, the reader, and you may think I am off in left field (this one not discussed in this entry), or that I should be institutionalized (a little harsh, don't you think), but in the end, I think you will thank me (or at least not un-thank me) for shedding light on these often mysterious and usually misused bon mots. And to think I am only using a 60 Watt bulb! 

The first expression to discuss is "making a mountain out of molehill". 

Now, many people think this plainly refers to making a big deal out of a fairly minor thing. Why, I do this all the time! Just the other day, I dropped my ice cream cone and briefly debated protesting outside city hall. Interestingly, the original expression was actually "making a molehill out of a mountain" which was a problem for the ancient Phoenicians in Greece. They constantly, and tragically, were always underestimating the seriousness of situations (plagues, aphids, eating sandwiches that had been left out for days). The people of Phoenix also loved molehills and to be held in high esteem a noble person would have a yard full of molehills. Having a molehill of great size was a necessary part of a dowry as well and you wouldn't even think of having a BBQ without a molehill to show off to your friends and neighbours. Mountains on the other hand were, honestly, a bit of a joke. Like what are you - big? Woooo. Good for you - what else can you do? Let's just say the silence spoke volumes. Herodotus and Isidore Mountain were the laughing stock of lower Phoenix and they had to move to Athens to escape the ridicule, where they had a good, albeit unexciting life, running a clay tablet shop. The myth of the Phoenix involves a grand bird that rises from its own ashes. This has no connection to what I am talking about right now, just thought I'd mention it on the oft chance anyone had forgotten and later on decided to make a ridiculously large commotion over such a small, inconsequential tidbit. The people of Phoenix made many attempts both figuratively and literally to make molehills out of mountains. An example of the day that has been passed down orally over the years involved a young boy whose huge mistake of replacing his father's sword for battle with a pouch of unripened olives thus causing a month long battle with the near by Corinthians resulting in much bloodshed and a scar on his father's left thigh (that coincidentally was in the shape of a pouch of olives). This huge momentous and tragic event was predictably downplayed by the Phoenicians and the boy was only reprimanded by having to change the wheel on his brother's chariot, which he actually loved doing. 

The first historical usage of actually trying to make mountains out of molehills happened in northern Lithuania. General Frangarz ordered every able-bodied man of the local town to convert the many molehills near the border into mountains that "even those mangy heathens wouldn't dare cross!" The workers set out one cold and hazy morning, saying goodbye to their tearful wives and less-tearful mistresses and not-at-all tearful next door neighbours. They worked and toiled and tried to convert the less-than-intimidating molehills into an adequate first line of defense. When the men failed to make more than a small hill due to the extreme frost of the winter he threatened to behead them all- only changing his mind because he promised his mother on her death bed that he would cut back on the beheading so they could spend more quality mom and son time together. Plus he was growing tired of all of the blood. A mountainous range would have come in handy if for no other reason than the anticipated spike in commerce due to all of the high-in-demand mushrooms that would have popped up on the mountains. I try to imagine what the moles must have thought when they saw the men not swearing at them and using shovels to flatten their hills and instead almost working with them for a change. If those Latvians had been successful it could have led to a new chapter in man/mole relations where instead of adversaries, we could have been partners or even friends. On a side note, many years later the expression "making mountains out of molehills" was used by world famous Chef Pantelon who aimed to make the world's tallest mound of mashed potatoes. So grand in size that even the mole, himself, would be impressed (moles are generally very unimpressed by chefs generally and by potato creations specifically). Ironically, the chef was a minimalist for most of his life, and his previous claim to fame was creating the world's smallest chicken dinner, or at least he claimed it was a chicken dinner. It looked like a few specks on a plate that very well could have been what happened to the last of the h'or dourves. A few of the house guests that evening wanted to check to see if it was chicken, but fortunately for the chef and his embarrassed wife, the microscope was a few hundred years away from being powerful enough to verify. Chef Pantelon had many regrets, late in his career, and he tried to expand his horizons mostly through the usage of potatoes. His grand "mountain" of potatoes was the talk of Europe, if by "talk" you mean "whisper" and by "Europe" you are mostly confused.

Strangely, the people of Ghana are quite proud of making figurative mountains out of either figurative or literal molehills (whatever if more convenient at the time), unlike most others where it is seen as an overreaction. In Ghana, the bigger deal you make out of a minor thing the more highly revered you are. This has had two results: first, everyone is constantly exaggerating and using hyperbole (which can get really tiring really quickly, let me tell you). There are constant battles over who has the biggest and best and arguments ensue. It is not uncommon for the police to get involved over what had initially started out as a conversation over who has the nicer couch. I'm not sure what is Ghanan for "take a chill pill" but I'm sure that they would start exaggerating and embellishing the facts over who had the "chilliest" pill or who pill looked like the president. The second result is that those people who have actual hugely large events or occurrences, who would normally have some actual reason to brag or boast, are completely unsure of how to react and they end up sitting at home by themselves eating carrots and reading. It is almost like a whole society of boys who cried wolves. The one upside is that the funniest comedian has a few great bits on the extreme "mountains" that some men have used to describe some really small things, and the women who love them. The women of Ghana have tried, historically, to avoid all hyperbole as it makes them look...ummm how to put this...like they are filling out their size 5, hand-dyed, hand-woven, Kente cloth patterned-smock a little too much. Sorry, just telling it like it is. 

It would seem that in the end, the mole himself, has the last laugh. Both the annoying, real holes that he digs and the slightly less annoying figurative holes used in speech just give more publicity for the much maligned mole. Give your publicist a raise! Now if only he could get people to realize that being compared to a mole isn't necessarily a bad thing and that he has zero to do with the chocolate-y spicy Mexican sauce aside from both tasting good wrapped in a tortilla (or so I'm told).

The next expression to look at is one of my personal favourites: "till the cows come home".

Now this expression currently refers to something that won't happen quickly or for a while since those cows are really slow at coming back to the barn. And to think that no one is the least bit curious or suspicious over what is taking so darn long!?! I mean they could have an illegal gambling ring set up around the barn and could be extorting the sheep (I mean they do seem skittish at the best of times) or they could be selling contraband branding devices and rust and dent free milk buckets. Interestingly, cows have not always been the slow, meandering animals we love and therefore, the expression hasn't always been true. The expression has a rich and powerful history that speaks to who we are as a race. A look at the history of the expression will proof instructive and, hopefully, educational, but I can't make any promises. The last time I made that promise I spent five months hiding behind a large cacti in the New Mexican dessert. True, I learned how to extract milk and food from the cacti, I domesticated and subsequently ate some small rodent-type dessert animals I encountered and I even opened up a little Catci theme park in my backyard when I returned home, but those were some dark times and I was forced to do some unbelievably regrettable things to survive. Don't even think about judging me - I'd like to see you survive in the dessert with nothing except the clothes on your back and also the clothes on your legs and feet (I left my hat at home). Anyways...as you will soon see, before our modern-day understanding, this expression of waiting "till the cows come home" has oscillated between meanings over time.

Our first stop in the history of this expression is Indonesia. The highly-revered fast cows of 18th century East Timor were loved and appreciated far and wide. Many people prayed to them, played rudimentary gambling games with them and, naturally, bred, trained and raced them thoroughbred style. Only rarely, if hit with a certain craving, were they eaten and when they were they were marvelous, albeit slightly tough from all of the running and weight training. Eating these fast cows was frowned upon, as they could be literally cash cows for a family. Hungry children would ask "why don't we just eat Mildred already, we are starving. Plus she hasn't won a race all year!" and their mothers would reply "Eat the cow?!?! Are you crazy!?!?! Is that what we do in this family - eat someone when they are no longer winning??!?! Now be quiet and eat your fried armadillo like a good girl." These cows were treated like the queens they were (and sometimes like kings as well, as East Timor was way ahead of its time in regards to their view of gender roles, at least among livestock). A few days before each race, the cows would be paraded throughout the downtown dressed in their regalia. The townspeople would stand by the side of the road and cheer and wave signs like "How da cow? You da cow!", "Marry me! (if only 'the man' would reverse the antiquated laws prohibiting human and bovine weddings)" and  "Moooo! There it is!". After a full day of parading - the wagering would begin. The city square would be packed early Tuesday evening to discuss and debate every topic from which racer was looking good, to if it was "wrong" to love a cow more than your own kid, to wondering who would win a fight - the legendary cow Tomido who once won 25 consecutive races or that loser what's-his-name president who keeps raising taxes. Wages were placed and the races were a day of much excitement. On such an occasion that a family's gamble paid off, there was much celebrating and the yams were plentiful.

From East Timor we find ourselves in the South American country of Argentina. Back in the 15th century, there was a native group of Argentinians who worshiped a group of mythical, wise cows who oversaw and protected them and also passed judgement on all dilemmas amongst the people. These learned cows really took their time, so much so, that the time it took them to deliberate became one of the time markers and some South American historians think this was an early precursor to the modern month (most other historians laugh at them behind their backs). The people would be known to say "see you in a how-long-it-takes-for-the-wise-cows-to-decide" or "I can't believe how big little Juan has grown since two-cow-deliberations ago". One especially important and delicate judgement went on and on (two townspeople couldn't decide whose yucca tree was the most inspirational and, thus, better to appear on a series of tourist pamphlets advertising the upcoming jicama festival) - so long in fact that some wondered if the cows were in fact a myth after all as "Crazy" Paolo was always rambling on about after eating to many ghost peppers. A sentiment was growing among the Argentinians why they were looking to cows to make decisions for them in the first place, especially as no actual cows had ever been milked, let alone sighted in the local area. "Crazy" Paolo would take up his perch every Sunday morning exclaiming to all in earshot "Waiting till the cows came home makes no sense - how many times must I tell you- there are no cows here! They are never coming home, because this is not where they live. Is it just me? I feel like everyone else is drinking crazy cow sauce!" The backlash against praying to these cows was harsh and this divided the community between two groups, the traditional, increasingly-more secretive cow worshipers and the more modern "wise potato" worshipers. Potatoes also, coincidentally, took a very long time to come to a decision.

Finally, the earliest reference is believed to involve the C'oww people of northern Ur whose account pre-dates all written history. Some of the oral records seem to indicate that they could have written stuff down but were pretty snobby on the whole and writing was considered fairly low-class. These ancient heros were famous for venegance, revenge and amazing butter cream frosting. They scoffed at all attempts to codify laws, use zeros, domesticate dogs and wash armpits (though oddly they made it a law that people must shave zeros into the armpits of their mangy dogs). They were evidentially both super adept at leisure activities like card games, lawn bowling and watching camel races and also very slow at all household tasks, including taking out the trash, wiping around the sink, and changing diapers.They also loved going out and either taking their sweet time coming home making it next to impossible for their wives to time the tabbouleh or coming home really fast especially when they were due for a foot massage or a sandal repair. The men were either faster or slower than cows making any attempt at linking them together troublesome and confusing. Wives would often complain and wish their slow husbands were as fast as a heavy pig. Any comparison to a relatively speedy cow would be drowned out by riotious laughter. The women of the faster, blister-footed men sometimes wished they had married actual bovines, if nothing else for the conversations and the plentiful cream.

The final expressions go hand-in-hand as both are pastry-related and very tasty sounding -"a cake walk" and "as easy as pie". 

These taste bud-massaging expressions invoke amazing experiences that utilize all the senses and are ultimately a huge let down as they are only metaphors, and not even slightly tastier than some random, regular words (I mean have you tried the new strawberry and mint flavoured "and" they are making these days?). The original cake walks of pre-Gold Rush San Francisco were legendary. The now-infamous cake district was a gathering area for the goateed intellectuals, mustachioed artists and surprisingly facial hair-free cake makers of the early 19th century. This was truly a hub of groundbreaking philosophical thoughts, hyper realistic glass-blown artwork, and avant-garde cake design. Not an evening would pass without an intense sharing of ideas usually focused around a debate over art for art's sake vs. art as a means for social change vs. "that glass bowl is meant to be presumptuous right?". This all would take place over a table adorned with remarkably plain table clothes and the crumbly leftovers of the creations of the "Cake Mafia", a group of five, living-on-the-edge dessert renegades who baked and lived life on the edge. They mixed hard, partied hard, and harvested their own baking powder at least twenty years before it became mainstream. They baked as they lived, and they lived as they swam and they swam often (nothing like a good dip in the ocean after a day in the kitchen) and they were both revered and feared. Cross them and you may as well have been a ghost, stay on their good side and you'd be enjoying the best beignet this side of Paris, do something in the middle and you may be lucky to lick some leftover chocolate sauce. Start on their good side but make a mistake and someone else, maybe your mother, would be enjoying French pastries at your funeral. The ominous walk from your home to the graveyard was a thing of lore and was known colloquially as "the cake walk". There were also some regular walks taken by average citizens to go buy a slice of cake, but those are not at all noteworthy.

What do you call people who are so rebellious that they didn't even fit in with the way-out-there whisk and cake pan rattling renegades? Throughout history people like this have been known by many names - The Cross Sculpturers, The Miniature Garden Caretakers, and Fred and in 1800s San Francisco these brave, often misunderstood men, were known as The Pie Guys. These Pie men eschewed the baking norms of the day and flat out refused to associate with cakes even when the cakes themselves "appeared" welcoming. Instead they spent their time rolling out crusts, exacting their own brand of vigilante justice using solely rolling pins and flour, creating creamy fillings, collecting rare and often inappropriate porcelain figurines, adorning their top crusts with cute apple-shaped edible art work, attempting to curtail the rapid growth of all vinery and serving up the most scrumptious pies in the world. And to top it all off they looked fantastic while doing all of this. Yes, the legends are true, they not only strove to make incredible pies but they also were constantly setting fashion trends while doing it. Other groups of pie makers had come before them but were squashed by either the Cake makers, by societal pressures, or by an avalanche (that only happened once and no one stood so near that snow-covered mountain again). But, this particular group not only survived but flourished due to their flare and abundant use of sweet, juicy berries. Their enemies claimed that these berries were artificially enhanced and that Pie Guys were "juicing" (adding extra sweet cane juice to their berries to gain an advantage). These suave vigilantes were constantly wanted by the law as much for their secret pie crust recipe as for taking the law into their own hands. Men wanted to eat their pies, women wanted to eat their pies and cats just wanted to lap up spilled milk and lick themselves, but you knew that already. The expression "as easy as pie" was their catch phrase whenever they either swooped in and saved someone in peril or waited until the last moment and served up some delicious pie to a person who was in dire need of a good snack. 

For nearly one hundred years these two groups dominated the California scene and while they clashed relentlessly, they drove each other to dizzying new heights that many local foodies say has never been matched before or since. Their food rivalry was matched outside of the kitchen, where the Cakemen took out the trash and also got rid of those who didn't bow before them while the Pie Guys tried to help society in their own unique way  -imagine the Hell's Angels only as really really well-dressed men who baked like your grandma on her best day. Where people walked around in a constant state of fear as the next "cake walk" could be imminent, there was also a strange, feeling of peace, knowing that the peace keeping "easy as pie" guys may be just around the corner ready to save the day. Tensions eased when one day the great-great-great grandson of one of the Cake Mafia fell in love with the great-great-great grand-daughter of one of the Pie Guys. But only very recently did the descendants of these groups sit down for tea together, thus ending years of bad feelings and overly harsh competition. They decided that they could live and work side-by-side or possibly one in front of the other too on special occasions. After hands were shook, backs patted and noses itched, the dessert menu was placed in front of them and a big decision had to be made - cake or pie? I wasn't there that day, but I have heard from friends who know other friends who talked to some guy who knows people that an audible hush fell upon the restaurant that and that the day was only saved by an exceptionally good tiramisu.