“Come make your pizza!” I hear from down the stairs.

I shut my laptop and slide out from under my covers, feet plopping onto the carpeted floor. I head downstairs, smelling the yeast.

“Here’s some dough for you.” My mom points to a rounded mound of white dough slapped on a piece of parchment paper.

I grab the rolling pin and roll the dough as my two siblings arrive in the kitchen.

The dough stretches as the rolling pin pushes the edges further and further away from its original ball. The final shape is in no way perfect—in fact, it looks less like a pizza and more like a two-year-old’s attempt at a Play-Doh circle. But that doesn’t matter, it still tastes good.

Next is my favorite part: the toppings. I like a garlic and herb cheese spread. On top of that, I slop on a spoonful of sauce and spread it around with the spoon. To finish it off, I pile on cheese, making sure to cover every inch.

Glancing over at my siblings’ pizzas, I notice differences. My sister is not a fan of sauce, so her pizza consists of just cheese. My brother has pepperonis littering the top of his. Even though we have grown up together, we have different tastes.

After our pizzas are complete, we slide them onto cookie sheets and into the oven.

Once they are done, we cut them and eat them almost immediately, even though they are still hot.

“Yum!” we exclaim after the first few bites. “Thanks for dinner, Mom.”