How Could I Have Gone 33 Years Without The Use Of The Word 'Zaftig'?

I finally finished reading a book last night that I started reading 33 years ago. The exact same copy of the book I bought, I'm pretty sure, on a trip to Washington, D.C., I made when I was fifteen. A mass market "pocket book" copy of Larry "Ratso" Sloman's On The Road With Bob Dylan, an insider's account of the 1975 Rolling Thunder Revue tour. I know, I know: For shame, a self-proclaimed, supposedly well-read Dylan nut who up until now had not read the book--may I spend 100 years in Purgatory listening to nothing but Pat Boone renditions of Little Richard hits for my transgression.

Now I haven't been continuously reading the book all these years; that would average out to about four words a night. But over the years, through all the moves and infrequent bookshelf purgings (sellings off), the book has stayed with me, and every five years or so I'd say to myself, It's time to read this book. I'd start, but for whatever reasons never got through much of it. This time I did, and I wonder what took me so long. It's a fun, great read, loaded with lots of great scenes and wonderful stories about Dylan and his vagabond troupe of musicians, actors, poets, filmmakers, hangers on, etc. (as well as the most detailed glimpse at Bob's first wife Sara I've ever read).

Years ago I heard a woman at a bookstore tell her little son, who wanted two books, "You can only read one at a time, Henry." Which of course is bull. Most well-read people I know are always juggling three or four books at once. Then there's the usual question asked when somebody's looking over your bookshelves: "Have you read all these books?" Of course not, what would be the point in that? The point is, sometimes a book and its reader need to come together at the appropriate time; even, I now claim, if that time is 33 years after the reader acquires the book. With some books you need them spying you from the shelf, tempting you to dare their pages, mocking your specific illiteracy, knowingly winking and whispering, some day, when you're ready, you'll be able to read me. I'm sure we all have books like that, books we finally pulled out late one lonely night after years of neglect and suddenly discovered a new friend who speaks perfectly to you exactly where you are at that moment. Or books we've tried to read several times and failed, only to try once more and it finally conquers you as you conquer its pages. I don't know if Sloman's book quite qualifies as such a transcendent, now-is-the-appropriate-time read for me, but I'm sure glad I've finally read it.

At least twice in the book, Sloman, writing as a proud Jew, uses the Yiddish word zaftig. I can't say I had never seen the word before, but I certainly wouldn't have aced a vocabulary quiz it was on, and I know I had never used it before. Turns out zaftig means "pleasantly plump, buxom, full-figured, as a woman," and comes from the Yiddish zaftik and/or the German saftig, both meaning "juicy." What a wonderful word. Is there any other word anywhere containing the letters z,f,g? Surely any word beginning with a z is pretty cool, but when you caboose it with -aftig, my o my, poetry. Whereas "pleasantly plump" sounds patronizing at best, and rude at worst, how can you go wrong with zaftig? Do these jeans make me look fat? No, baby, zaftig, ooh la la!

Reading a well-written, fun, informative book about Bob Dylan makes my day. Reading one I've been trying to read for thirty-three years makes my week. Learning the word zaftig? Bring on 2012, my year's complete.