The Callaway Household (Season 1)

Chapter 1: Baking Noob

The air in Drake and Kurome Callaway's New Orleans apartment hung thick with the sweet, singed scent of culinary catastrophe. Batter clung stubbornly to the ceiling fan, a testament to Drake's ambitious (and disastrous) attempt at a layer cake.

"Just a little lopsided, that's all," Drake muttered, gingerly placing the misshapen cake on the counter. "Adds character."

Kurome, ever the supportive wife, raised an eyebrow. "Character, or a leaning tower of Pisa made of burnt sugar?"

A ghostly chuckle echoed through the room, followed by the translucent form of Amanda Callaway, Drake's dearly departed mother, materialized by the fridge. "More like the Leaning Tower of Flour-ever!" she cackled, her spectral form shimmering with schadenfreude.

Drake swatted at the air, a futile attempt to shoo away his spectral tormentor. "Mom, seriously? You haunt me for my questionable life choices, now you gotta judge my baking?"

Amanda folded her spectral arms. "Honey, I haunted Alcatraz for a year. This ain't even close to scary. Besides, judging your baking is a public service. Who knows what culinary monstrosities you'd unleash on the world without my intervention?"

Kurome, ever the diplomat, stepped in. "Drake was just trying to be sweet, Mama. He saw that recipe for Kurome's favorite cake and wanted to surprise me."

Amanda's spectral form softened. "Oh, bless his cotton socks. You know, that cake needs a little somethin'-somethin'." With a snap of her spectral fingers, a bottle of bourbon materialized on the counter. "Add a splash of this, and it'll be like a party in your mouth. A slightly singed, lopsided party, but a party nonetheless."

Drake's eyes lit up. "Bourbon in cake? Genius!" He grabbed the bottle, earning a playful swat from Kurome.

"Easy there, Casanova," she laughed. "We don't want another fire hazard."

As Drake doctored the batter with a healthy dose of New Orleans' finest, Amanda regaled them with stories of her own baking disasters. Turns out, even the ghost of a notorious gangster's mother had her culinary downfalls.

By the time the cake emerged from the oven, slightly less lopsided and infused with a hint of smoky sweetness, the kitchen was filled with laughter, the scent of singed sugar, and the faint glow of a mischievous ghost.

Drake, covered in flour and a sheepish grin, presented the cake to Kurome. "Voila! A culinary masterpiece, slightly singed with love, and a healthy dose of haunting."

Kurome took a bite, her eyes widening. "It's... actually good."

Amanda, perched on the counter like a spectral cherry on top, beamed. "See? Even a gangster can bake, with a little help from his spectral mama and a healthy dose of bourbon."

As they devoured the lopsided cake, filled with the warmth of love, laughter, and a hint of otherworldly intervention, one thing was clear: even in the face of culinary disaster, family, and a good ghost story, could always make things sweet.