Shlalta

Last year I took a philosophy class and used this notepad to record some of my thoughts on the topic. On the top of one of its pages, resting next to an abstract doodle, stood the word Shlalta. Shlalta, what could it mean? What could it possibly signify? I had no idea. If it were intended as an acronym to remember some philosophical concept it certainly didn’t work. It wasn’t an English word either, it had more of an aura of Aramaic. Hmm, Shlalta.

It begins with a soft but commanding sh. This sh is than immediately followed by an l. This awkward l brings your whole tongue to the front, jamming up the revolving door of the mouth. The awkwardness gets extended, elongated, exacerbated by the A that follows and the painful knowledge that there’s another l just around the corner. Shlal, like an old comedy routine, these five letters all try to get through the door first and fail miserably. But, not to worry! These bungling fools do get the release they so desperately seek. The Ta. Ah the Ta! It expands the doorway and springs the shlal and all the tension it created. The way of the Ta frees the words from their awkward bindings and allows it to romp happily through the conversational landscape. It becomes a word to congratulate with: “It’s a girl? Shlalta!”. Or the name of a ritualistic ceremony: “I’d love to come but my nephew’s Shlalta is next Tuesday and I can’t miss it”. Conversely, it could be a place to put things. “It’s over there, on the Shlalta” or something your Grandmother makes when you’re down. “Don’t worry my dear, Grandma is going to make you some nice baked Shlalta!” Mmm, baked Shlalta. You prefer fried Shlalta, but are you going to say that to your Grandmother? Of course not! You will say “Grandma, it’s the best Shlalta I’ve ever had”.

And it will be.

A