Once a month my mother makes zucchini brownies in our kitchen. Dark chocolate brownies smothered with chocolate sauce, chocolate making them so thick that a tall glass of milk is necessary.

Her kitchen cluttered with dogs and children, mom makes a pan of 24. A pan of these brownies could disappear in less than two days, with ease. Just this Monday she made a double batch – 48 servings – and within 48 hours they were all gone. I ate a single brownie before I went to work Tuesday evening; roughly three-fourths of the brownies remained. When I arrived home there were only scraps in an empty pan. I barged into my mother’s room asking, “Who the hell ate all the brownies?”

She responded, “The little sh--s.”

What makes this dish important to my family is the way it unites us only to tear us apart. The four of us sit around the table as the brownies come out of the oven. Then, we throw crumbs to the floor as we scarf them down. Surprisingly, my brother asks my family, “How is everyone doing today?”

We all respond, “Good?” simultaneously glancing at each other with a confused look on our face, as he is often a shy and reserved individual.

Once the brownies disappear our conversations shift to “You ate the last brownie, you pig!” We’ve created a rule about food: Food left in the fridge without a name on it is unclaimed and fair game. Without my mother’s delectable desserts, I would not have such an oscillating relationship with my siblings. We bond over the chocolate and sugar, only to rip each other apart after its gone.