I was walking through the front door. My legs aching from the long car ride up. The nostalgic smell of my family’s cabin filled my nose. I was feeling excited about a long weekend of relaxation and exploration of the great outdoors. Then there was a slight buzzing noise coming from my dad’s pocket. A call from my mother who was supposed to be driving up after us. That of course was not going to happen after she realized there was a big storm between her and us. We were going to have her make her specialty dinner when she got up, homemade pizza. Now we had to figure out what we would do for dinner. 

All we had with us was the ingredients to make the homemade pizza since my mom was stopping on the way up to get some groceries. My dad decided that I was a good enough chef, so why don’t I just make the pizza. Just like that, a long night of relaxation in front of a movie was gone. I had always enjoyed making the occasional baked good but when it came to helping make dinner it had always felt more like a chore. But the only option was to make it myself knowing that if I let my dad do it we would somehow end up with a loaf of bread instead of a delicious pizza. Finally, I decide to get started with the dough, while thinking I’d much rather be playing a game or watching a movie.

My mother had sent us the link to the recipe so all I had to do was follow it which was simple enough. As I worked, I mixed in the flour and added the salt. My arms starting to ache, I add the water and see the dough come together, and finally, after so much work I got to take a break to let the dough rise. While I flop down on the couch, the soft cushions engulf me in their gentle hands. I realize that my parents have been making me dinner since I was born and maybe they deserved a break sometimes. That was something I could provide by making this dinner, and perhaps more of them afterward.

After taking a nice 15-minute break I needed to make the pizza sauce before the dough was done rising. This was simple enough as it was something my mother always had me do to help her when she made pizza. I add the tomato paste to the sauce and watch it thicken up. Then the spices are added, the basil swirling into the sauce. The sauce now done, all I have to do is put together the toppings and then I am done. Grating the mozzarella cheese, and of course, stealing some of the small shreds of cheese, one of the perks of making dinner. One of the many privileges I found comes with the job of making dinner, like getting to decide what should be available for toppings, and sampling the food first.

When all the prep work was finally done, I call my brother and dad down to finish putting together their pizza. My brother is the first one to come down to the kitchen. I divide the dough into three more or less equal sections, giving one of them to him. Taking my piece of dough in hand, I stretch it out making it as thin as possible. Then it is time to pre-bake the dough in the oven. When that comes out I add the toppings, getting a heavy serving of my favorites. All that is left to do is wait about 10 minutes until I can enjoy my pizza, the pizza that I had made all by myself. Knowing that I had made the pizza somehow made it taste better. It must have been that it was more of a reward for my hard work rather than just dinner, and I always loved being rewarded for hard work.

I knew as the pizza came out of the oven, with the smell wafting through the kitchen, that something had changed. I hadn’t seen dinner as something extra special like a cake or cookies, but rather as something that was just going to happen. Since my mother wasn’t there and my father wasn’t able to make the meal, it had become something that was almost a special thing to make. Thinking of it as something that isn’t routine first led me to enjoy cooking along with baking, but since that day at my cabin, where my mother couldn’t be there to make dinner, my love for cooking has only grown to what it is today. Something that is one of my favorite things to do and an important life skill.