Rule one of cooking for my mom is onions and garlic. When I find her each evening on the couch, exhausted from working since dawn, the sound of the aromatics sizzling in my pan grabs her attention. She says, "That already smells so good," and starts to come back to life. A good dinner is always the cure. My mom raised my sister and I on her own, often between jobs and broke. Through it all, she never failed to make us dinner and sit with me while I refused to eat it. I didn't know that she skipped meals to save food for us, all I knew was that I hated peas. So, I cook, as a "thank you" and an "I'm sorry," trying hard to pay her back for hunger, effort, and strength. Rule two of cooking is that nothing goes to waste, so I use whatever is already rotting in the fridge. Saving money and eco-friendliness go hand-in-hand; it just takes some imagination. Today, a bell pepper is in its final hours, wrinkled and forgotten in our refrigerator drawer. Slice it up and throw it in. While I watch my pan, my mom turns up some music: always Elton John. Throughout all the years of sacrifice, I'm most grateful for my mom introducing me to Elton John. In "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road," he sings about abandoning a public life in favor of returning home, unafraid to be successful on his own terms. Defining success free from outside pressure has become my focus, guiding me in everything I do. Right now, success for me is to put a good dinner on the table. I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this; my pan is full of half-cooked leftovers. As I stir, it overflows a little like it always does when I'm carried away. My focus dissolves when I'm in front of the stove, allowing me to explore combinations I never thought would work. I try to mimic that outside the kitchen, taking advantage of every unique opportunity I'm offered: trying out for the cycling team, applying to be a school newspaper editor, and signing up for the outing club. Sometimes it works out. I pull a bundle of wilting cilantro out of the fridge (remember rule two). Chop it up and throw it in. When I look at the kitchen around me, it's like a tornado has gone through our house. I like to pretend that I cook like an artist, spontaneous and creative, but to outsiders, I'm a slob. While my pan simmers, I do a few dishes and clean up before moving on. Mom and I sit down to eat. No matter what I make, she says she loves it. Besides that, we're quiet, eating quickly. I piled her plate up high, and the tension in her shoulders dissolves as she eats the last bite. She asks me for advice, and we talk through our problems. I hardly ever have solutions for her, instead, I offer a different perspective and keep her honest. Still, we both feel better once we leave the table. Because sometimes all you need is a hot meal. Rule three of cooking is to ignore the rules. Like my mom (and Elton John), my path to success isn't conventional. Sometimes I fail, in the kitchen and otherwise, but learning from my mom has taught me that it's okay to try again. The vision isn't always clear when I open the fridge and gather my ingredients. But, because of my mom's faith, I get to experiment, finding success in unlikely places.