One time this happened...

My grandmother once turned our kitchen into a crime scene, declaring that the culprit behind the great lasagna heist was none other than myself, caught red-handed. The smell of burnt garlic still lingered days later as a family of detectives worked tirelessly to clear my name, but the real mystery remained unsolved – how she managed to memorize my every move, even when I was stuck in the bathroom, too engrossed in the world outside to realize I was being watched.

The way my mom arranged her spice rack as an ode to symmetry drives me to distraction, yet somehow her obsessive neatness puts me at ease on chaotic days like today when my sister's cat decides to shred my only good sweater as revenge for neglecting its 3 a.m. wake-up call.

I still cringe thinking about the time I tried to 'salsa dance' in my living room to impress my family. My mom couldn't help but burst out laughing at my ridiculous steps, and my little brother started making 'fowl' sounds, comparing me to a chicken.

My grandfather insists that the world began in the depths of our pantry, where a particularly plump jar of mayonnaise holds the secrets of creation. He tells me this while devouring a can of sardines, his eyes gleam with an unholy intensity as he recounts the exact moment when the mayo awakened.