Before I was able to read, my younger brother Gabriel and I would spend the weekend with my dad in a house near the redo canal. We both nicknamed it “the Canal house.” It was not that big to begin with; it only had two stories, two bedrooms, a small kitchen and a bathroom somewhere in between. It was a surprise that my dad could fit his children, his best-friend Sean, Sean’s girlfriend Tina, as well as years and years of memories. 

When I look back on my life in the Canal house, the first thing that pops up in my mind would be the stupid bowl of Mr. Noodles. It was not my brother’s intense love for the oily snack that made it so memorable, it was the time that I tried to cook it for him. I've seen my dad peel off the seal on the top of the cup, put it in our cheap white microwave, and then hit the quick minute button enough times to do it on my own. As I was putting it into the microwave, I thought I was doing a good deed for my brother for a change. I slammed the microwave door shut, pressed the quick minute button with my thumb and walked upstairs to play. 

Maybe there’s a reason why sisters are not supposed to do good deeds for their brothers. 

It was the smell that reminded me that the noodles were done. Too done. I swiftly got up off the floor, tiptoed around the army of stuffed animals I’ve set up, hurried downstairs and inhaled the familiar and undeniable stench of burnt food. 

Cautiously, I opened the microwave door. Thick, grey smoke escaped from the inside and found its way to the ceiling, leaving behind a Mr. Noodles bowl with jet black, squiggly noodles. It wreaked so bad that my nose began to burn. I slammed the microwave door shut and ran out of the kitchen to fetch my Dad. But then a thought crossed my mind: what if he gets mad? I stopped at the bottom of the steps. Panic began to settle in my chest. I've stunk his whole kitchen with a bowl of Mr. Noodles then his everyday cooking ever did. He’s going to get really mad I thought to myself. I looked back towards the kitchen which was already looking a little hazy from the smoke, and then to the top of the stairs. But he’s going to find out eventually. My grip tightened around the handrails. Might as well tell him before it gets worse. And so I started my ascent towards what I believed was the punishment of a lifetime. 

I found my dad sitting on our blue king sized bed with my brother. They were watching an episode of the old Spiderman cartoon on the little TV on top of the dresser. Timidly, I walked in. 

“Hi dad.” I muttered. 

“Hi honey. Come sit and watch Spiderman with us.” My dad patted the empty spot next beside him with his huge hand. I jumped onto the bed and he instantly wrapped his arms around me. Spiderman was being chased a robot that breathes fire. I began to calm down a bit until Dad said, “Is something burning?”

“Nothing’s burning.” I said a bit too quickly. 

Dad got onto his feet and made his way to the stairs. “No Dad wait-“I stopped. I couldn't think of any lies. Before he could even leave the room, I told him everything that has happened, including the part about doing a good deed for my brother. (In which Gabriel turns towards me and simply says, “I not hungry.” Well that’s a little inconvenient Gabriel.) 

My dad walked into the kitchen. He bent over and opened the microwave. After being hit in the face with a cloud of smoke, my dad started to laugh. 

“Wow. You really burned it, Turtles.” He pulled the Styrofoam bowl out and took a good look inside, making him laugh even harder. “What did you do?”

I told him that I pulled off the seal on top of the cup, and then I put it in the microwave—

“So you didn't pour any water in?” My dad cut me off. I stared at him in disbelief.

“No.” 

“Well, that will do it.” He took one last look at the charred noodles before throwing it in our garbage can. “Open up the back door please, I don’t want the alarm to go off.”

After Dad took care of the noodles, I thought I wouldn't have to deal with it anymore. Of course, my brother mocked me for weeks afterwards. But what shocked me the most was that the smell stayed in the garbage can long after we had taken the trash out. The smell was so bad that my Dad left it outside in our backyard, which was covered in snow. Even after the snow had melted the stench didn't go away. It was as if the smell was some sort of ghost that haunted me about how bad a cook I was. We eventually threw the garbage can away and after a few days the smell had been eliminated from our property. My brother still mocked me for months.