Perhaps we can bum a light from Piggy.

Dear Word Detective: While watching my granddaughter play at a playground, a lady’s children said that they were building a campfire. I mentioned (jokingly) that I hope that they didn’t have any matches and would start the playground equipment on fire. She replied that her kids called them “fire sticks.” After some thought, I decided that their description was better than mine. So, why are matches called “matches”? My dictionary, besides describing them, indicates that “match” is of French origin and has a date of 1549.– Paul Schmid.

“Fire sticks”? Oh my. Perhaps I’m being an alarmist, but it sounds as if that mother has mistaken “Lord of the Flies” for a child-rearing guide. Or maybe she chose it on purpose. Lately I’ve been wondering if my life hasn’t been one long misunderstanding of the role of dystopian literature (e.g., “Animal Farm,” “Brave New World” and “1984″). I had always presumed that the whole point was to recognize and avoid that sort of thing, but apparently not.

Anyway, I suppose “fire stick” is a good name for matches, just as “horseless carriage” and “iron bird” work pretty well, but I’d argue that particular names for things, even if slightly mysterious, have their own charm. Then again, I remember antimacassars.

The first question that is likely to occur to anyone pondering the roots of “match” is whether the word in the “stick of wood (or paper) tipped with a flammable substance used to start fires” is in any way related to “match” in the “thing that fits or goes well with another thing” or “person some website says I should marry” sense. The answer, fortunately (speaking as the one who would have to explain any such connection) is no.

The “good fit” or “one of a pair” kind of “match” comes from the Old English “gemaecca,” meaning “mate or companion,” and originally meant one’s husband or wife. By about 1300, “match” meant “a person or thing able to compete with another as an equal,” a sense still found in “tennis match” and similar uses. Gradually, however, the aspect of “equal” or “good fit” overshadowed the “contention” sense, which is why “match.com” is not a boxing website.

“Match” in the “fire stick” sense comes from an entirely different root, in this case the Old French “mece,” meaning “candle wick.” Interestingly, the Old French “mece” seems to be rooted in the Greek “myxa,” which meant “wick” but also, originally, “mucus.” The connection was a likening of the wick dangling from an old-fashioned oil lamp to mucus dropping from a person’s runny nose. Though matches today are made of wood or paper, originally lamps, fires, etc. were lit with matches consisting of cord or string soaked in sulfur, making the linguistic connection to the “wick” of a candle logical.

Cat with a hat.

Dear Word Detective: I have two questions for you to answer. One, what the heck is a “fedora,” and two, where does it come from? Also (yes, I know that this is more than two) how do you take one off? Is it like a hat? — Aife N.

Well, to answer your, ahem, fourth question first, yes, it’s like a hat. In fact, a “fedora” is a type of hat, usually worn by men, made of soft felt and having a center crease in the crown and a wide brim. I suspect that your interest in “fedora” may have been piqued by the recent release of the mega-ballyhooed fourth installment in the Indiana Jones adventure series, in all episodes of which Harrison Ford wears a fedora. Personally, I’ll always associate fedoras with Humphrey Bogart playing Sam Spade (or Rick in “Casablanca”). It’s funny you should ask about how to take one off, because there actually is an approved protocol for removing a fedora. It should be grasped by the top of the crown, never by its brim, and lifted gently off the noggin.

I noted above that fedoras are “usually worn by men,” but while the style has long been a symbol of rugged sophistication when worn by men in movies, the original fedora was, in fact, worn by a woman.

“Fedora” is actually the name of a play by the French dramatist Victorien Sardou (1831-1908) that premiered in 1882, written expressly for and starring the legendary Sarah Bernhardt. In the play Bernhardt portrayed Fedora Romanoff, a Russian princess, and wore a hat resembling the modern fedora. The name “Fedora” itself is the feminine form of the Russian “Fedor,” related to the Greek “Theodoros,” meaning “gift of god” (and from which we derive the familiar “Theodore”).

In the early 1920s, the fashion for the “fedora” took off (although primarily among men, not women), and the fedora became the most popular hat style in Europe and North America throughout the first half of the 20th century. When styles changed in the early 1960s and many men quit wearing hats as part of their business attire, the fedora went into eclipse. Indiana Jones notwithstanding, the fedora is probably fated to remain the fusty province of traditionalists in a world dominated by the ubiquitous baseball cap.

Interestingly, the fedora is not the only hat to be launched into fame from the theatrical stage. One of the most popular novels of the late 19th century was George du Maurier’s “Trilby,” the eponymous tale of an gullible Irish lass living in Paris who falls under the spell of a mysterious and hypnotic older man who makes her a star but eventually steals her soul and seals her doom. The popularity of the book made the name of Trilby’s sinister master, Svengali, synonymous with evil manipulation. But when “Trilby” was mounted as a play in London, the audience noticed that one character was wearing a snazzy hat with a narrow brim, a sort of compact fedora, and the style immediately became known as a “trilby.” Trilbys have been popular ever since (Kojak wore one on TV), and today are regarded as hip headgear by a variety of musicians and actors, including Johnny Depp.

Pot party.

Dear Word Detective: On a recent episode of the Food Network’s program “Good Eats,” Alton Brown discussed Dutch ovens and said that the origin of the name is unknown and may have referred either to the method of casting the pots, which was invented by the Dutch, or as of the result of the importation of the pots to New Amsterdam. As I watched it I thought “Aha! Evan will know!” but a quick perusal of the internet indicates you probably won’t. Since that’s never stopped you before, however, care to hazard a guess? — Jackie.

Hmm. I’m not sure how to take that. But I sense that you meant it as a tribute to my willingness to discuss questions to which I lack a definite answer. To be honest, when I first began this gig, I found the fact that reputable reference works so often label a word or phrase “origin unknown” a bit discouraging. But I have discovered, over the years, that even if a proposed origin fails to meet the standards of proof used in the Oxford English Dictionary, for example, one can still often peg it as likely to be true. Then again, I think I may have a higher-than-average tolerance for ambiguity and uncertainty.

So, anyway, a “Dutch oven” is, for the microwave addicts among us, a large, heavy pot with a tight-fitting lid. The classic Dutch oven also has legs, a sort of built-in trivet, allowing it to be stood atop a pile of burning coals, and a rim on the lid where more coals can be placed. Modern Dutch ovens, without legs, are usually made of cast iron and can be used either in the oven of a home stove or up top on the burners. It is apparently possible to cook just about anything in a Dutch oven, though stews, casseroles and the like are most often associated with the cookware.

Dutch ovens have been in use for hundreds of years, and were popular in both Britain and the American colonies in the 18th century. According to what is considered the definitive history of the contraption (”Dutch Ovens Chronicled, Their Use in the United States” by John G. Ragsdale), the impetus to their popularity in the UK and America was a visit to Holland in 1704 by a certain Abraham Darby, who studied the casting process used by the Dutch to make a superior type of cast iron pot. Darby adopted the process in England and shipped his “ovens” all over Britain as well as to America.

In his book, Ragsdale offers three theories for the “Dutch” label: the adoption of the casting process from Dutch manufacturers, itinerant Dutch salesman pushing the pots, or the popularity of the cookware in “Dutch” (actually German) areas of Pennsylvania in Early America. Of these, I think the first, that the ovens themselves were developed in Holland, is the most likely to be the original source of the name. Among other things, it would explain the use of the term in Britain. Traveling Dutch salesmen are certainly possible, but it was Darby’s company that really popularized the pots in England, probably using the “Dutch” label to lend humble pots a cachet of sophistication. And while the Pennsylvania “Dutch” certainly used “Dutch ovens,” it’s unlikely that folks in England, who had been using them for years, would adopt a name based on what the colonists called them.