One time this happened...

I've been practicing the ancient art of sushi-making, mainly through watching YouTube tutorials while eating stale ramen, which isn't exactly the most reliable way to master the technique. Anyway, my cat, an unimpressed observer, lay under my kitchen table, periodically batting at bits of fish that slipped onto the floor.

Mom's infamous seven-layer lasagna haunted the depths of my arteries as I stared blankly at last Friday's leftovers on the fridge door. A faded recipe card, scribbling reminders in an old Sharpie, had slipped beneath my feet earlier.

Sarong wrapped around my hips, I stood in front of the refrigerator, frozen. We were supposed to make risotto tonight, but I had never actually made risotto without assistance.

There's still a crumb stuck to my sweatpants from lunch, a faint outline of a peanut butter and banana sandwich my mom made this morning. I remember trying to tell her I'd lost my lunch, then catching myself glancing at her hand, at the crumbs scattered on her apron like tiny fingerprints of my dishonesty.

My aunt once accidentally set her dining table with a velvet Elvis painting as the centerpiece because she thought the silver glitter was for decorations, but the smell alone was enough to put me off the mediocre five-layer lasagna she'd spent six hours assembling – its bland cheese and burnt noodles a perfect match for the eerie, kitschy presence lurking between the wine bottles and the flowers; that was dinner the day I decided to develop my habit of arriving very early to family gatherings.

As I stared down at the sorry excuse for a cake, I couldn't help but think my aunt should've stayed home with the knitting ladies like I told her to. This monstrosity had more resemblance to a failed science experiment than the heavenly strawberry shortcake she claimed it was.