mondegreen
\ˈmän-də-ˌgrēn\
\ˈmän-də-ˌgrēn\
When I was a kid, my professor parents occasionally hosted potlucks for philosophy department colleagues, staff and graduate students. This being Southern California in the 1970s, a department party involved many hairy bell-bottomed youths lounging around discussing Kierkegaard and smoking cigarettes (and other combustible substances). Someone would invariably contribute a big pot of lentil soup or a cheese-leaden casserole out of the Moosewood Cookbook (I had meant to type “cheese-laden,” but I will let it stand as is). There would be a lumpy and difficult salad involving raw carrots and too many alfalfa sprouts. One of my dad’s colleagues, a great scholar of medieval religious thought, would bring chocolate chip cookies and perhaps a pie. There would be olives and jugs of Gallo wine and by 10 PM all the food would be gone and people would end up in the kitchen scrounging for crackers and sardines and the unshelled peanuts my parents liked to snack on after dinner.
My pre-teen self would wander from room to room, eavesdropping on conversations, looking for attention, and taking in the general dissipation.
My pre-teen self would wander from room to room, eavesdropping on conversations, looking for attention, and taking in the general dissipation.
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