One time this happened...

I watched my fingers tremble as I cracked a egg into the blender - the sound was too loud, it startled my housemate, a cat who was eating a bagel at the kitchen table.

My aunt's infamous seven-layer lasagna sits before me, the aroma of dried parsley and congealed ricotta wafting up like a challenge. I'm 10 years old again, attempting to impress her with exaggerated Italian flair during holiday gatherings.

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.