That's Macaroni Salad! (The Stroke, part 11)

My Dad, my brother and I are word manglers. When we're talking, sometimes the wrong words come out. Nothing's officially "wrong" with us. Everyone screws up words now and then and we're within the normal range, just close to the edge.
For example, my dad looks at our grapefruit tree and remarks about all the onions on it. I'll say something's "full" when I mean "empty", or refer to the refrigerator as the sofa.* Yes, I know the difference between a refrigerator and a sofa, but I open my yap and the wrong word flies out. We're not constantly doing this. Just enough to get the occasional odd look or the "being on something" accusation.
My mom was articulate one. The one who corrected our flubs. Then her stroke screwed with her speech. At first she couldn't say anything. Then came words that made little sense. To add to her frustration, my dad and I didn't make much sense either. Household conversations sounded like Abbot and Costello's "Who's on first"
Namowal's Mom (wants to say we need to go to the hardware store): We need to get, you know, the thing you wrap around your neck, a tie- no wait, not that. We need to go to the place across the street from Ralph's.

Namowal (wants to say the shop down the highway): Oh, you mean the shop down the sideway?
Namowal's Dad (wants to say hardware store): You mean the houseware store?

In spite of this nonsense, her speech improved. The other day we were in a restaurant and my dad returned from the salad bar with a plate of macaroni salad.
Namowal's Dad: I got myself some spaghetti.

Namowal's Mom: That? That's macaroni salad!
This was good. She'd turned another corner. She's correcting us again.
*I really said this a few days ago. I suppose I should be glad I'm not putting milk in the sofa and sitting on the fridge.