Mom is sick—a sad thought butthere is one benefit:I can finally occupy the kitchen,the forbidden land of warwhere you come out with scars, but alwaysa reward.

I wear my mother’s green apronlike armor on the battlefield.I treat ingredients with passion,sprinkle the seasoning carefully,make sure to clean up.

With a little bit of confidence,a trace of nervousness and panic,I push the pizzainto the oven,hoping to surprise her.

Floating aroma,a good heart,and dedication—all for my mom.