Fifteen-year-old me and my mother came into Papa Murphy’s for a take and bake pizza, the kind that had pepperoni, sausage, and mixed onions (my favorite), unaware what would result from that trip. Over the speakers, I overheard “takin’ back the crowwnnnn,” and complemented the worker for her stellar music taste in Panic! At the Disco. “Thanks, we pick and play our own music!”, she said energetically, along with a smile.

When the other worker handed me my pizza, I thanked him and apprehensively asked, “A-are you...guys...um hiring?” I left with both dinner and an application in my hands.

That night, while devouring the pizza slice-by-slice, I pondered the possibility of having my first job, and working with my favorite food. Would my taste buds be scorched by the constant contact?

A week later, I eagerly began the pizza-making process. I was beyond nervous, but everyone’s light-hearted attitude banished my nerves. Despite the low pay, my coworkers are what make the job worth it.

“I’m hungry, let’s make a pizza,” my coworker Matt said with his shockingly deep voice. Matt’s always hungry. Every other time we work together, he asks me to whip up a pizza. Grilled chicken, mixed onions, and crispy bacon; his favorite combination.

One would think after making pizzas for hours at a time, multiple times per week, for two years straight, would force me to have a profound distaste for anything that even remotely looks like it. However, for me that was not the case.

Seventeen-year old me now hands out pizzas and applications to fresh faces. I remember those days, when I didn’t know what my future held. That was before I met my second family; the people who love me unconditionally.