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.

I'm mortified. I was trying to cook dinner for my family last night and I ended up setting my favorite apron on fire.

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.

Yesterday morning, I stood in the kitchen with a clogged mixer nozzle wedged up my nose, trying to dislodge a stubborn glob of honey like a desperate archaeologist. My aunt watched from the couch with a mixture of concern and disdain, probably wondering when I'd figure out this whole 'adult life thing'.

Sometimes the most awkward moments arise when family gatherings are at their loosest. Like the Christmas dinner our grandmother brought home an emu.