Runcible

The Long Life of a Meaningless Word

Some words come into the world to describe an object; others come simply because they sound so beautiful, even when there is no object to describe.

Runcible belongs to the second group. It has neither a Latin root nor a meaning forgotten in an old English dictionary; Edward Lear invented it for his poem about an owl and a cat who set sail in a pea-green boat, taking with them some honey and money, and eventually marry and dance in the moonlight. Even when the word first appears, it is not explained; our lovers eat minced meat and quince slices at their wedding feast, and they do so with a runcible spoon . Although the reader doesn't know what the spoon looks like, they don't find its place at the table strange, because in Lear's world, a word doesn't need to have been used before to be real.

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat is one of the most beloved poems in Edward Lear's 1871 book , Nonsense Songs, Stories, Botany and Alphabets . Its story is remarkably simple and equally bizarre: an owl and a cat fall in love, set sail, encounter a pig with a ring in its nose in a distant land, buy the ring, and the next day marry in the presence of a turkey. They then eat a wedding feast, including quince, and dance hand in hand on the sand in the moonlight. The poem doesn't explain why all this is possible; even if the reader wonders why the owl and the cat travel together, where the bong tree grows, or what a runcible spoon looks like, the rhythm of the verses transports these questions into a world that needs no answers.

The reason we included quince in the recipe is precisely this feast. Lear's two lovers, at the end of the poem, feast on "mince and slices of quince," eating quince with runcible spoons; we didn't dare bring the minced meat part to the tea, because it's better for everyone if some ideas remain within the safe confines of nonsense poetry. But the quince's distinctive scent, its bittersweetness, and its character reminiscent of old orchards allowed us to forge a real connection between the poem and the tea, one that goes beyond mere name.

The fact that Lear doesn't give a precise meaning to the word "runcible " makes this connection even more interesting. In later years, people tried to describe what a runcible spoon should look like; when the word entered dictionaries, some described it as a tool between a spoon and a fork, and it was even considered the literary ancestor of the modern "spork." However, in Lear's own drawing, what the owl and the cat are using resembles a large ladle with a long handle, not a fork. Moreover, the poet later used the adjective "runcible" not only for spoons but also for things that have nothing in common, such as a hat, a cat, a goose, and a wall. Just when you think you're getting close to understanding the true meaning of the word, Lear takes it away again by attaching it to another object.

Perhaps "runcible" referred not to a specific shape, but to an inexplicable quality: things that, though familiar, are placed in the world at a slightly awkward angle, things that seem illogical but function perfectly within themselves… The marriage of an owl and a cat is runcible; so are the pig with a ring in its nose and the turkey performing a wedding ceremony. A strange spoon, whose grip on the quince is unclear, can certainly be runcible; but the meeting of yerba mate, quince, sage, mandarin, and pink pepper in the same cup comes very close to this inexplicable appropriateness that the word carries.

When one examines the life of the person who created such words, one encounters two seemingly contradictory Edward Lears. Although we remember him today for his nonsense poems and limericks, Lear began his professional life as a highly serious and sensitive nature painter. Even in his youth, he was a talented illustrator working for the London Zoological Gardens, depicting parrots and other exotic birds with great anatomical accuracy. He drew birds not only from stuffed specimens but also by observing them in their live form; he paid attention to the smallest detail, from the direction of the feathers to the curve of the beak, from the animal's posture to the expression in its gaze. This man, who did not insert a single artificial feather between himself and reality in his scientific drawings, wrote poems filled with animals, plants, and words that did not actually exist when evening came.

These two sides were not as far apart as one might think. Lear, having observed the world carefully, knew exactly where he could bend and twist it. Accurately drawing the anatomy of a bird and sending an owl out to sea in a pea-green boat were two separate results of the same curiosity; in the first, he was recording how nature worked, in the second, showing how much more fun it could be if it worked slightly differently. His nonsense poems are not simply a jumble of random words; they are small worlds meticulously constructed with rhythms, repetitions, and sounds, replacing logic with another order.

Lear was also a painter who spent much of his life on the road. He documented the landscapes he saw during his travels from England to Italy, from Greece to Albania, from Egypt to India, in hundreds of sketches and watercolors; mountains, coastlines, ancient ruins, and distant cities transformed into a vast, luminous world in his paintings. His constant movement was fueled by his curiosity about new landscapes, as well as by the health problems he suffered since childhood and his search for warmer climates. Epileptic seizures, respiratory problems, and melancholic periods, which he called "the Morbids," accompanied him throughout his life. Despite this, perhaps precisely for this reason, he created a free space in his poetry where he could temporarily escape the weight of the real world.

Lear's world of nonsense is not a place devoid of sadness; it is a place where sadness, loneliness, and difference are translated into another language. The characters in his poems are often considered strange, ostracized, or misunderstood by those around them; but Lear does not try to correct their strangeness. Instead, he gives them a boat, invents a distant country, sends talking animals to them, and gives them a new identity with a word no one has ever heard before. The owl and the cat are also two creatures that might be considered incompatible; yet in the world of the poem, their love needs no explanation or defense. They sail together, marry, and dance. Instead of waiting for the approval of reason, they create their own happiness.

The reason yerba mate is at the heart of the RUNCIBLE recipe is its lively, curious, and somewhat restless character. Yerba mate's green, herbal, and slightly bitter nature gives the tea a vibrant backbone; it sets the direction of the cup rather than getting lost in a soft fruity blend. Its uniquely alert character is reminiscent of Lear's side of himself, who couldn't stay in one place for long, constantly embarking on new journeys in pursuit of new landscapes. The other ingredients of the tea are not placed to cover this backbone, but to create rhythm around it, much like the words of a poem.

Quince leaves the most direct trace of poetry in the recipe, while dried orange and mandarin create a bright, sunny layer reminiscent of the warm climates in Lear's paintings. The orange has a fuller, more citrusy character; the mandarin, with its sweeter, livelier, and easily rising aroma, enhances the movement of the blend. These two brighten the green bitterness of the yerba mate while also making visible the calmer, more familiar, and slightly nostalgic fruity scent of the quince. Thus, the cup transforms into a landscape that evokes the feeling of a pea-green boat sailing towards a warm and distant shore, though we don't know where it set sail from.

Sage inserts a drier, more thoughtful, and slightly wilder streak among these bright fruits. Along with yerba mate, it strengthens the herbal side of the recipe, preventing the citrus from turning the tea into merely a cheerful fruity infusion. Just as Lear's meticulous nature painting establishes an unseen order beneath his nonsense poems, sage works similarly within the mixture; it may not be the most striking ingredient at first glance, but without it, the whole structure of the recipe becomes too round and easy.

Pink peppercorn is a made-up word in the tea. Its fruity and slightly floral aroma, followed by a subtle hint of spice, leaves a difficult-to-explain strangeness among the familiar flavors. Its presence alongside quince, mandarin, and orange is unexpected at first glance; but the vibrancy it creates at the end of each sip makes one think the recipe would be incomplete without it. Just as we believe in the poem about a runcible spoon without knowing what it looks like, we accept the presence of pink peppercorn in this cup without questioning its purpose at length. Because it appeals to the palate, if not the ear.

When the tea brews, the bright aromas of mandarin and orange rise first; these are followed by the softer, slightly bitter sweetness of quince and the green body of yerba mate. Sage creates a dry, aromatic shade at the back of the cup, while pink pepper leaves a small surprise towards the end. The result is a tea that is neither entirely fruity nor purely herbal, neither completely familiar nor simply strange for the sake of being strange. Each ingredient has its own identity, but what they create together cannot be summed up in a single word.

More precisely, it didn't exist before.

Edward Lear's "runcible," coined over 150 years ago because the rhythm of a poem demanded it, has become the most accurate word for us to describe this recipe. For tea, like the word itself, derives its meaning not from a dictionary, but from the unexpected harmony of its components: quince from poetry, yerba mate from journeys, citrus fruits from Lear's luminous landscapes, sage from his serious painting, and pink pepper from the world of nonsense that saves all of this from being overly reasonable.

If someone asks you, "What does 'Runcible' mean?", you can, of course, explain that it's an old English word coined by Edward Lear, with no precise meaning. But if you prefer a shorter answer, one that might please Lear more, simply brew some tea and place it in front of them. Because some words are more clearly defined in a cup of tea than in a dictionary.