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I've begun exhibiting some new mannerisms lately, mostly in the kitchen, that have caused me great concern. While cooking, I'll uncharacteristically do or say something that stops me dead in my tracks, not because my behavior is heinous or egregious, but because it is disturbingly familiar. It is my mother's. The best name I can come up with for these flashbacks of serendipitous self-realization is "Ohmygodivebecomemymother Flashes."

A great example of this happened to me a couple of weeks ago at my parents' house: My mom's a great cook, with an uncanny knack for always making more than enough food, no matter how many friends, stragglers, and vagrants show up for dinner, so I want to show her I've learned a trick or two watching her cook over the years. What I don't know is that her hereditary karma has lent me a few quirks as well.

I purchase my groceries and am calmly prepping my dinner when the stragglers and vagrants show up, in the form of my older brother, two older sisters, their husbands, and five of my nephews. Of course! I had forgotten that they'd be over. No problem, except I only have enough food for three, a gaffe Mom would have never made. "We'll order some pizza for the kids," she says with a smile.

In a matter of seconds, five adorable little dynamos affix themselves to my limbs. This is usually great fun, but not when you're simultaneously boiling potatoes, frying julienne yams, and chopping jalapeños. "Some little boy is going to get minced," I threaten, waving a spatula. They giggle and affirm their grips on my legs.

Twenty minutes later my sisters have removed the nephews from my legs, fearing that one might actually end up in the mashed potatoes. See, things are falling apart. I'm too far ahead with some dishes and too far behind in others. The salmon needs to be deboned, the aioli blended and chilled, and the bread—Oh, @#$%! Where's the bread? Plus, my father keeps turning off the water in which my potatoes are boiling. Each time he does this we have this exchange:

"Why did you turn the water off?" I ask.

"It was boiling over," he replies.

"Why didn't you just turn it down a little?"

"...."

I've witnessed this exchange before. Between my mother and my father. Something in my stomach jumps. O-Flash.

My sister offers to help with the bread, which someone (call him "Nephew X") had mistaken for a surface-to-air missile. But while she's opening a can of artichoke hearts, I hear a shriek and the sink turns crimson. She has cut her thumb—badly—and her husband rushes her to the emergency room.

So my sous chef's at the hospital, my corn won't roast, and my water has been miraculously turned off again. And an unprepared salmon is sneering at me. I'm sick of the whole thing and ready to throw in the dishtowel and join my nephews for pizza when I remember meals of years past, watching my mother when the kitchen hit terminal velocity. Despite the blood, sweat, and tears (and occasional burned bread), she never threw in the towel and always managed to triumphantly save dinner. And now she steps in and does it again. She helps me make a few quick saves and in no time I'm announcing "Dinner's ready!" while I carry the plates over to the table. But there's nobody at the table. Nobody in the dining room. Nobody anywhere. "Fine!" I yell. "If you want cold food, I don't care. I really don't. I'm going to enjoy my dinner." Wait, I've heard this tirade somewhere before. O-Flash!

Eventually, the rest of the family saunters in (except for my father, who's interminably late for meals) and we share our meal of half-prepared salmon, reheated mashed potatoes, and pizza. My sister returns and shows us her stitches. When we finish dinner I stand up to clear my plate away, but Mom intervenes. "Don't worry about that, honey," she says. "The cook shouldn't do dishes."

This last statement didn't incite an O-Flash, as it probably had rarely been muttered in our home, but it probably should have.