Hypha

Giving us a not-so-fuzzy feeling

Today’s New York Times Spelling Bee letters: A, E, L, P, T, Y, and center H (every word must include H).

Merriam-Webster says…

Silly little dictionary! Don’t you know hypha can’t possibly be a word if the New York Times says it ain’t?

For further fascinating facts, check out the Spelling Bee Master.

What’s your favorite g.n.a.w. from today’s puzzle?

My Two Cents

Ever wonder what that greenish fuzzy stuff on moldy bread is called? No? You’ve probably just thrown away that slice, along with the rest of the loaf, without thinking twice about learning a new word.

Mycelium.

Wait a second! You’re thinking that’s not today’s word. And you are correct.

Today’s word is hypha, plural hyphae. (Ah, these Greek words with their fancy plurals…)

Here I pause to give a shout-out to research scientist Daniel DeMarco for pointing out the importance of using said plural, as one itsy-bitsy lonesome hypha does not a mycelium make, to paraphrase Aristotle.

A mycelium is a flock of hyphae. Well, maybe not a flock, since we are talking about mold and not an English 80s new wave band. In most fungi — remember, fancy plurals here — hyphae are the main mode of vegetative growth, and are collectively know as a mycelium.

Hot fuzz

A hypha usually consists of one or more tubular cells surrounded by a rigid cell wall. When hyphae have more than one cell, they have internal cross-walls called septa (fancy plural of septum). These internal walls usually have pores large enough lo allow the flow of all that good stuff you don’t remember from high-school biology: ribosomes, mitochondria, and nuclei.

The guy with the weirdest name, Mr. Spitzenkörper (German for “I spit on your grave”) initiates tip growth. It does that by releasing vesicles that travel to the cell membrane and release their contents outside the cell. Meanwhile, the membranes of these vesicles contribute to the growth of the larger cell membrane.

I know, that was a tough read. (And an even tougher write, for me.) To make up for it, here’s some microscopic fungal growth for you to enjoy:

As I mentioned before, the the white fuzz that grows on a rotting tomato is the mycelium, which is made up of a ton of these teensy-weensy branches. Yecccccch!

Not a port, not a dash either

Hypha sounds exactly like the port city in the north of Israel, but the word has nothing to do with the place. Although being so close to the water, I’m sure Haifa has its share of mold issues.

Perhaps hypha reminds you of the word hyphen, and you think they must be related somehow because 1) the first four letters are the same 2) they both sound Greek and must therefore have the same old European root.

Here’s the interesting thing: although hyphae look a lot like hyphens, that’s just a coincidence. They are not remotely related. Or maybe very remotely, but the point is they have different roots.

Hyphen originates from Late Latin/Greek’s hyph’ hen, or “under one”, which in turn came from hypo “under” + hen, a form of the word for “one”. In ancient Greek a hyphen was an undertie-like sign, like this: ‿ (so, a smiley face without the nose or the eyes). It was placed below two adjacent letters to indicate that they belonged to the same word, in case there was any doubt. This was back before some genius finally came up with word spacing.

Hypha, on the other hand, is from New Latin that used the Greek word for web, hyphos. Which makes sense since the microscopic limbs end up forming a huge, messy, disgusting web that covers your spoiled food.

So next time you see a piece of moldy bread, you’ll be able to sound real scholarly when you point out: “Hey, there’s a bunch of hyphae on my sandwich!”

Or maybe you won’t… because the Spelling Bee editors read hypha and said: “Gee, Not A Word”.

Check out my previous discussion on words that g.n.a.w. at you:

And check out the interesting articles by Daniel DeMarco here: