Before I moved to Korea, I don’t think I ever really said the word “delicious.” I guess I always considered it a sort of cumbersome 10-cent word more easily replaced by its three cent cousins, by either more or less specific terms of taste and flavour. It was just an unnecessary word that existed in my lexicon, one just vague enough to be completely useless in regular conversation, and thus one I didn’t really use or care about. It could be stricken from my brain—incredibly particular and futuristic microsurgery used to scrape it from my very neurons—and I could have gotten by in the English world with little difficulty.
I’ve never really thought about or appreciated the language I was born with. In high school and university, I had a lot of boring, pretentious conversations about different languages, and English was usually filed pretty low in the rankings. French and Spanish were romantic, Indian languages earthy and exotic; Japanese, Korean, Mandarin all alluring and bewildering beyond measure. I liked these other languages because I didn’t speak them, and thus they were somehow more fascinating or special than my own gutter tongue. I would never put work into learning any of them, because that would require effort and forethought and dedication, and all that stuff was for losers. I was to be stuck a unilingual, with the most boring language of all.