It's just what she does. My mother is predictable. She prefers the word dependable, but either way we could bet on her ebb and flow. JD and I are the last to arrive and that's when she places the appetizers she'd been hiding from the rest of her children. My siblings accuse her of favoritism, she waves her hand with easy dismissal, and I wink at her. Six children sit at the kitchen island sharing the three elevated chairs and talk over guacamole, cojita cheese, grilled veggies, and tortilla chips, each trying to talk louder than the other. My brother will flex his muscles, my younger sister will pretend to gag, JD will talk trash, Bianca and I will talk in twin-talk, and Alexandria will work at her laptop. All at the kitchen island. And my mother watches from a distance with a smile.

My father hovers over his six-flame range, tasting as his cooks. Five minutos, he yells to no one. And don't get full on chips! He's been reminding us of this for as long as I can remember. He's also shirtless. This has been the case for as long as I can remember. We all hope his chest hair doesn't interfere with the main course.

When we sit at the table, we're still jostling for the lead in conversation. Catalyst!…I'm auditioning for the high school musical!…Wanna see my muscles?!…Italy!…No phones at the table!…Who's gonna say the prayer?…Work!…Who forgot the forks?

Then we pray. And–for a moment–our family is unbreakable.

The rest of the meal is spent talking, catering, coddling, supporting, arguing, and loving. I've always maintained my family was the weirdest on the block. And though I still maintain this as fact, I've accepted it as my own. And love every bit of it.