One time this happened...

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.

Fragrant wisps of garlic escaped the confines of last night's leftovers, now a pungent reminder on my kitchen windowsill. The aroma wafted through every nook and cranny, mingling with yesterday's dampness, until I couldn't take it anymore.

Today I burned water while making soup, which is a culinary sin but I take pride in it - a black scalded mess that tastes vaguely of disappointment and despair.

The day my aunt's culinary legacy almost ended in a sauce-covered disaster I was at her house, attempting to recreate her famous homemade ravioli for the family reunion, but it seemed even I couldn't save it from herself - a splash of too much lemon juice had turned the ricotta an unholy shade of chartreuse and was now oozing across the table like a slow-moving virus.

Some people collect stamps, but my grandmother's a champion saver of soggy pizza box inserts. She'll find one at the back of the garage from 1992 and hold it up like it's the Mona Lisa, pointing to the exact spot where our cat's name was written in grease.

My aunt accidentally set off the fire alarm while trying to deep fry a dehydrated onion ring. We all had to evacuate, and as we stood outside, I realized I had eaten my last three dollar dinner on that very kitchen table.