One time this happened...

Sometimes I'll be cooking dinner and suddenly forget how much water to use just because Mom left the country. The recipe is scribbled on a Post-it from a time when I was still in middle school, and my handwriting has morphed into a mess of squiggles since then.

My grandmother's ancient mixing spoon keeps falling to the floor - a reflexive apology is always in the air as I fumble to pick it up. Her kitchen smells just like it did when I was a kid: equal parts warm sugar and worn linens.

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.