The Right Way to Say Things… According to Us

We all have a gift. Mine is noticing details most people would prefer I didn’t. Kami’s is making complicated things look easy. But every so often, our gifts collide when she meets a new word, and I get front-row seats to the moment it fights back. She gave me permission to share a couple of highlights, and I plan to use that permission responsibly. Mostly.

Kami is one of the sharpest people I know. She could run a small country, whip up the most exquisite meal you ever tasted, and organize chaos with the efficiency of a woman who has seen things. In our family, the best mistakes don’t get corrected - they get framed. The moment one of us mispronounces something or botches a phrase, it’s as if we’ve accidentally contributed to family history. We don’t let it go. We keep it, treasure it, and pass it down like heirloom china. In our house, a bold mispronunciation outranks accuracy every time.

Years ago, she and her husband were in a home Bible study. Everyone was taking turns reading from a book, which is normally where adults pretend they can pronounce everything. Kami was reading a passage sprinkled with the word “pseudo.” A polite, harmless word. A word that should whisper. Instead, every time it appeared, she announced it like a new menu item at a trendy restaurant. “SWAY-doe.” And she didn’t do this once. She committed. Four full renditions. Finally, her husband leaned over and whispered, “Um…it’s SOO-doe,” and she stopped mid-sentence, blinked at him with a “you-couldn’t-have-told-me-this-sooner” look, and said a very quiet, “Oh.” The room exploded. She snapped the book shut like it had tricked her on purpose.

Another time, she and I were in line at the grocery store with a bottle of wine from Ste. Chapelle. Kami looked at it and announced, very confidently, “This Stay Chapelle wine is pretty good.” I stared at her like her voice had come out of someone else’s body. I always thought she said it that way as a joke but something about the way she said it this time gave me pause. Turns out, the joke was on me.

“You do know that’s not how you say it, right?” I asked cautiously, not sure if she was kidding or not.

“What do you mean?” she said, as if the question was the problem.

“S-T-E is the female spelling for Saint...it’s SAINT Chapelle.”

A man ahead of us in line had clearly been listening, because the moment the words left my mouth, he turned slightly with the kind of grin people get when they’ve stumbled into free entertainment. When I explained the rest, he actually snickered. Kami noticed, muttered, “Stupid French words,” and shrugged, having decided the word would stay that way.

He thought it was hysterical. So did I. And honestly, no matter how it’s spelled or how many French nuns roll over in their graves, it will forever be Stay Chapelle in our family, pronounced boldly, incorrectly, and with feeling.