Horseradish with turnip is no sweeter. A familiar phrase? It's often said when there's no choice: both options are bad, with no difference. But where did this strange comparison come from? Why have root vegetables become symbols of hopelessness? And what story lies behind this garden metaphor? Let's dig into it like seasoned etymologists.

Botany of the dispute: why horseradish and turnip, specifically

At first glance, horseradish and turnip are relatives. Both from the cabbage family, both spicy, root vegetables, both winter, pungent. Not sugar, for sure. But that's the catch: a Russian peasant in the 19th century knew the difference well. Horseradish is fiery to the tears, turnip is bitter and pungent. They were added to different dishes: horseradish to meat, aspic, turnip to okroshka and salads. Imagine: you're offered a choice between rye bread with horseradish or rye bread with turnip. Both are sharp. Both get up your nose. That's the saying: horseradish and turnip are equally bad when the soul craves something sweet.

First meaning: neither this nor that, both are bad

The classic meaning of the phrase is a choice between two equally undesirable things. Example: "Will you go on a business trip to Vorkuta or Norilsk?" — "Well, horseradish with turnip, both are a punishment." Or in a debate about candidates: "Ivanov is a thief, Petrov is a bribe-taker." — "Horseradish with turnip, no one to vote for." But there's a nuance: sometimes this phrase is said not about bad, but about indistinguishable things. As in the joke: "What's the difference between horseradish and turnip?" — "If you don't know, there's no difference."

Second meaning: confusion and nonsense

Another layer of meaning is the mixing of the unmixable. "Mixed horseradish with turnip" means creating chaos, mixing concepts, facts, things. For example, a teacher says: "You mixed Dostoevsky with a detective novel and quotes from advertising in your essay. It turned out like horseradish with turnip." Or in a conversation: "He told me such a story — horseradish with turnip, neither true nor false, some kind of okroshka." This meaning is almost like "mixture," but with a touch of irritation: a mixture is edible, but horseradish with turnip is not.

Where are the roots of the phrase: in the garden or in the tavern?

There is a version that the phrase originated from tavern culture. In old drinking establishments, they served appetizers: horseradish with vinegar and turnip with kvass. If a guest ordered "something to eat" and there was no food available, they were offered that very pair. From here, the irony was born: a choice like horseradish and turnip. But linguists doubt it: the phrase is not found in written sources from the 18th century. However, it is already in Dal's dictionary (1860s). Dal quotes: "Horseradish is no sweeter than turnip, and the devil is no easier." That is, by then, the phrase had already become a classic.

Live examples from literature and cinema

In Chekhov's story "Boredom," the hansom driver Ion says: "Horseradish with turnip — all the same." He's talking about his sorrow, about his son, about the indifference of passengers. In Ilyf and Petrov's "The Golden Calf," characters complain about apartment choices: "Horseradish with turnip, both are hovels." And in the Soviet film "Love and Pigeons," the grandmother sighs: "Marry Vasiliy or Peter? Horseradish with turnip — both drink." The phrase is enduring. It has survived tsarism, the Soviet era, and the nineties. Because the situation of an desperate choice has not disappeared.

Comparison with other languages

The English would say: "Six of one, half a dozen of the other." The Germans: "Das ist gehüpft wie gesprungen" (this is like jumping or hopping). The French: "Bonnet blanc et blanc bonnet" (white hat and white hat). No one has this garden aggression. And the Russians do. Horseradish and turnip are not just neutral objects. They have a character: sharp, pungent, they can accidentally make you cry. So the phrase carries not only the meaning of "nothing good," but also a light irritation: "Again you put me in this ridiculous choice."

How not to confuse with similar sayings

There is "horseradish with turnip is no sweeter" — it's the same phrase, just rearranged. There is "a pinch in the air" — about ease. "Fig with it" — about disregard. And "horseradish with turnip" — specifically about comparing two evils. Don't confuse it with "the devil is no scarier than he is portrayed." There's a different meaning there: apparent danger and real. Ours, both options are really bad. A domestic example: you need to go to the dacha through a traffic jam on the MKAD or through a broken bridge. Horseradish with turnip. Three hours in a traffic jam, two hours on the bridge with the risk of getting stuck. Choose either.

Why the phrase doesn't die

Ask yourself: when was the last time you heard "horseradish with turnip"? Maybe yesterday. The phrase is enduring because it has energy. It's rough (thank you for the word "horseradish," which always teeters on the edge of a curse). It's specific (the image of two root vegetables is etched into memory). It's emotional (a light fury from hopelessness). And it's our own, familiar, kitchen phrase, not like the English "half a dozen." As long as Russians are faced with a choice between two bad options, "horseradish with turnip" will be with us.

As you have understood, the phrase is not about vegetables. It's about life. When at work they offer two dismissals to choose from. When in love — two betrayers. When in elections — two populists. Horseradish with turnip, my man. Choose what's sharper, or what's more bitter? Ah, yes — equally. That's all the saying. But we said it, and it felt a little better. Because our language found words for hopelessness, and from that hopelessness became almost familiar.

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