Pineapple On Pizza Quotes

The two of us against a small army of convicts, rapists, cannibals, and people who put pineapple on pizza?

People who eat pineapple on pizza deserve to be alone.

No pineapple on pizza, ever.” “Agreed!” Mason said, laughing. “Pineapple on pizza is an abomination. It should be illegal.

What do you believe in, Dara?” Noam pressed again. Dara sipped at his soda. Swirled his straw round the glass when he lifted his head again. “I believe Vladimir Nabokov is the best novelist of all time.” “Dara.” Dara gazed back at him, Noam’s incredulity written all over his face. Without telepathy, Dara couldn’t quite tell if he was actually frustrated or just . . . But then Noam snorted and said, “Yeah. All right. What else?” The corners of Dara’s mouth tipped up. “I believe in utilitarianism,” he said. “I believe bourbon is the gentleman’s choice in whiskey. I believe pineapple belongs on pizza. Oh, and the fact that goats eat everything you own just makes them more endearing.” “You are ridiculous,” Noam said—but he was laughing now, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms over this chest.

Who gets to decide what ‘happiness’ is?” would be one question we might ask, given that some people, like me, are normal and well-adjusted, and other people put pineapple on pizza and enjoy listening to the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Culinary history is rife with controversy and debate. Ketchup on steak and pineapple on pizza are quaint discussions compared to outright fights over adding salt to the water when boiling pasta or the balance of peanut butter and jam in a sandwich. Foodies now wonder whether a Pop-Tart can be considered a ravioli.

Dinner that night was pizza, homemade by her father. It had slices of green pepper on it and, of all things, pineapple chunks. Coraline ate the entire slice she was given. Well ... she ate everything except for the pineapple chunks.

I want you to know there was some discussion about whether to make the pizza." "Because it's a Hawaiian pizza?" "Yeah. We have a new employee who makes the pizzas. He considers pineapple on a pizza against the laws of God and Nature." She held out the pizza.

Perhaps,” he said softly. He shook his head and took a steadying breath. “I called for pizza while you were in the shower. Half all meat, half pepperoni and pineapple.” It was a sign of how comfortable we were getting with each other that he knew what to get me, especially considering he thought fruit on pizza was an abomination. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that—the comfort level or the whole aversion to delicious pineapple.

Tuesday. When five o’clock Tuesday evening comes, I approach the apartment, carrying two large pizzas—a cheese pizza with only cheese, like Madison requested, the other a monstrosity made with ham and pineapple. Hesitantly, I knock, hearing a flurry of footsteps inside before the door yanks open, the little ball of energy in front of me, grinning. “Madison Jacqueline!” Kennedy shouts, popping up in my line of sight. “What did I say about answering the door like that?” “Oh.” Her eyes widen, and before I can say a word, she swings the door shut, slamming it in my face. I stand here for a moment before the door cracks open again, her head peeking out as she whispers, “You gots to knock.” As soon as it shuts again, I tap on the door. “Who’s there?” she yells. “Jonathan.” “Jonathan who?” I laugh, shifting the pizzas around when they start slipping from my grip. Before I can answer, the door opens once more, Kennedy standing there. “Sorry,” she mumbles, motioning for me to come in as she grasps Madison by the shoulders, steering her along. “We’re working on this stranger danger thing. She’s way too trusting.” “But I know it was him,” Madison protests. “You can never be too sure,” Kennedy says. “It’s always best to double-check.” I open my mouth to offer an opinion but stop myself, not sure if I’m at that place where my advice is welcome. I’m not trying to get kicked out before even eating any pizza

So, uh, where should I…?” I told up the pizza boxes as I trail off. “Oh, right. Kitchen table’s fine.” “I’ll show you!” Madison announces, as if I don’t know where it is, but I let her lead me there anyway. Kennedy shuts the door and follows behind us. I set the boxes on the table, and Madison doesn’t hesitate, popping the top one open. She makes a face, looking horrified. “Gross!” “What in the world are you—?” Kennedy laughs as she glances at the pizza. “Ham and pineapple.” “Why is that fruit on the pizza?” Madison asks. “Because it’s good,” Kennedy says, snatching the top box away before opening the other one. “There, that one’s for you.” Madison shrugs it off, grabbing a slice of cheese pizza, eating straight from the box. I’m gathering this is normal, since Kennedy sits down beside her to do the same. “You remembered,” she says plucking a piece of pineapple off a slice of pizza and popping it in her mouth. “Of course,” I say, grabbing a slice of cheese from the box Madison is hoarding. “Pretty sure I’m scarred for life because of it. Not something I can forget.” She laughs, the sound soft, as she gives me one of the most genuine smiles I’ve seen in a while. It fades as she averts her gaze, but goddamn it, it happened. “You shoulda gots the breads,” Madison says, standing on her chair as she leans closer, vying for my attention like she’s afraid I might not see her. “And the chickens!” “Ah, didn’t know you liked those,” I tell her, “or I would’ve gotten them.” “Next time,” she says, just like that, no question about it. “Next time,” I say. “And soda, too,” she says. “No soda,” Kennedy chimes in. Madison glances at her mother before leaning even closer, damn near right up on me, whisper-shouting, “Soda.” “I’m not so sure your mom will like that,” I say. “It’s okay,” Madison says. “She tells Grandpa no soda, too, but he lets me have it.” “That’s because you emotionally blackmail him,” Kennedy says. “Nuh-uh!” Madison says, looking at her mother. “I don’t blackmail him!” Kennedy scoffs. “How do you know? You don’t even know what that means.” “So?” Madison says. “I don’t mail him nothing!” ... “You give him those sad puppy-dog eyes,” Kennedy says, grabbing Madison by the chin, squeezing her chubby cheeks. “And you tell him you’ll love him ‘the mostest’ if he gives you some Coca-Cola to drink.” “ ‘Cuz I will,” Madison says. “That’s emotional blackmail.” “Oh.” Madison makes a face, turning to me when her mother lets go of her. “How ‘bout root beer?” “I’m afraid not,” I tell her. “Sorry.” Madison scowls, hopping down from the table to grab a juice box from the refrigerator.

Despite her love of pineapple on pizza, Lark was perfection. I felt like a love starved moth drawn to the light of her smile.

And, I know this will be a declaration of war to some readers, but I actually like a Hawaiian pizza (i.e., pineapple and ham).

Everything is valid. The only things that are not valid are bullying. invalidation, and pineapple pizza.

What’s your feeling about pineapple?” asked Frankie from the back. “On a pizza?” said Alpha. “Unforgivable.” “How come?” “Because it’s fruit. There’s no fruit on a pizza.” “A tomato’s a fruit.” “That doesn’t count.” Alpha took a drag of his smoke. “A tomato may be a fruit, but it is a singular fruit. A savory fruit. A fruit that has ambitions far beyond the ambitions of other fruits.

Pizza and beer,” Corman said. “And if you want something with weird toppings, you’re paying for it yourself. No goddamn pineapple this time.

John Scalzi “I want you to know there was some discussion about whether to make the pizza." "Because it's a Hawaiian pizza?" "Yeah. We have a new employee who makes the pizzas. He considers pineapple on a pizza against the laws of God and Nature." She held out the pizza.

Rara hesitantly picked up a piece of the pizza and took a tiny nibble. “Oh! It’s so good!” She took a bigger bite, getting some of the pineapple and jalapenos in her mouth.

I made American pancakes this morning. Would you like some? I am about to serve the first batch to my guests." "I can make some for us," I said, taking in the batter, the greased griddle, and the bowl of apricots. "You can go and fuss over the guests." "Ah, bien," she answered, loading a platter full of beautiful apricot-studded pancakes to take away. "Bon, I pour the batter and place the slices over the top just so. They're very moist because of the crème fraîche, and then I serve them with a crème anglaise." "It looks great," I said, taking the ladle in hand and stirring the batter, just to get a feel for the consistency. "Don't worry about us." Sandrine grinned her thanks, and I turned my attention to breakfast. "I can do that, if you want to sit," Neil offered. I waved him away. "I can make pancakes in my sleep." "I liked that she called them 'American pancakes'." "Well, they are. French pancakes are crepes, and German pancakes are a whole other deal altogether." I ladled four puddles of batter onto the griddle, enjoying the sizzling sound they made as batter met butter. "English pancakes are closer to crepes, just thicker." "Reminds me of when I was in Toronto for a conference. I tried to order a Canadian bacon and pineapple pizza but got tongue-tied." I laughed and began to arrange the apricots. "What did you do?" "I said 'Hawaiian' instead. The guy seemed to know what I was talking about." "Quick thinking." "Thank you." "In truth, between the crème fraîche and the crème anglaise topping, I think these pancakes are a bit more trans-Atlantic than American." "I'll take your word for it.

Lying on the ground, the instrument looks like a Venn diagram for toppings that belong on a pizza versus pineapple, two big separate circles. He lifts the whole thing up, minding the ceiling, sticks his head through the pineapple portion, and straightens the pizza portion to be a little flatter to the front.

Though her taste in pizza could use some improvement. Sorry, Juliana, but pineapple does not belong on pizza.

The guy seemed uncomplicated by political intrigue, personal drama, or unreasonable attachments to ham and pineapple pizza.

Leighton chokes on his pizza and Theo has to hammer him so hard on the back, a chunk of pineapple shoots out of his nose. Hunter curses up a storm as it lands in his lap.

And it wasn’t just Josh’s body. It was him. There wasn’t anything about him I didn’t like. I wished there were. He was easygoing and funny. My moods didn’t scare him. He just kind of shrugged them off. He was down for anything. We hated all the same stuff—artsy indie movies with endings that didn’t have any closure, pineapple on pizza, daylight savings time. Sometimes he said something right as I was going to say it, like our brains worked on the same wavelength. Every day I searched for some fatal flaw so I could stop having these feelings. Sometimes I purposely grilled him on things, just to see if his answers would irritate me. It never worked.

Pineapple on pizza never makes sense.

Really?” Falling into step with me, he asked in exasperation, “You save our clan from a massacre, and that’s what you want for a reward? Pizza?” “With pineapple on top.

Do you like pineapple on pizza?" “Not particularly." He looks devastated. That's when I notice there are little pineapples all over his shirt. This guy is dedicated to pineapples. He gets quiet and looks like he’d rather be anywhere else at this point.

That I declared it pizza night.” “Pineapple?” I roll my eyes at the man I love. I knew he had to have one flaw.

There's fucking pineapple on that," he growled. "Who the hell thinks cooking fruit is a good-

I, uh. Pepperoni pizza, extra cheese. No pineapple,” he says in bemusement. Brooklyn props her chin on her hand. “Thanks, baby. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” “I dunno,” Phoenix chuckles. “Felt pretty hard to me.

Well, the paper says to tell each other about ourselves. I'll start. I love pineapple on pizza!" This guy is way too excited about pineapple on pizza. I mean, I can take it or leave it, but it certainly wouldn't be a conversation starter for me.

Stick your pineapple crap up your ass, Hudson! It does not belong on pizza!

Okay, who ordered Hawaiian?” Thorn demanded suddenly. “What kind of a monster puts pineapple on pizza?

I leaned my elbow on the table and pointed at him. “That right there is blasphemy. Everyone knows two things. One, pineapple does not belong on pizza, and two, it’s better with your hands.

How do you like your pizza? You don’t get any weird toppings on it, do you?” “Is pineapple weird?” “I think you know the answer to that, and you should be ashamed of yourself.

Pineapples without pizza is a sin

Pineapples and Pizza were made by Jesus's Son himself

Korean pizza was, and still is if you look for it, the stuff of Italian nightmares. Bulgogi, wasabi, sweet tomato sauce, gochujang (고추장, Korea’s potent red pepper paste), cream cheese, raisins, nuts, cheap canned pineapple, strawberries, kimchi, and potatoes . . . All these are legitimate Korean pizza toppings.

You mean, if I say I want the cheesiest pizza, where they fill the inside of the crust with cheese, and top it with jalapeños and pineapples, you’d eat that with me?” He grimaces. “I should have known you were one of those people who liked sweet shit on pizza.” I scoot closer to him, pressing my chest against his. “How dare you call me people. It’s very condescending. And you, Mr. My-Body-Is-My-Temple, wouldn’t know good pizza if it landed in your mouth.” He smiles down at me, his eyes smoldering. “I’d like to have something in my mouth, and while it’s another five-letter-word that starts with p, it certainly doesn’t end with an a.

Once the city limit is moved, I’ll order a pepperoni-and-pineapple pizza and listen to your gramps tell embarrassing stories about you.” “Pineapple? On pizza?” Miller shakes his head in mock disappointment. “You aren’t welcome here anymore.” I walk down the steps, skipping the rotted one again. When I’m safe on the grass, I turn around. “You can’t dictate who I get to be friends with. And pineapple on pizza is delicious. It’s the perfect combination of sweet and salty.

Then let me be the one to introduce you to the best thing you'll ever eat in your life. I’ll get a supreme, maybe a Hawaiian if you’re the type to like pineapple on your pizza—huge debate in the world, by the way—and of course, a plain cheese and a pepperoni just in case.

She closed her eyes, imagining her favorite pizza from Market Street Pizza. She could almost smell it. She heard Rara gasp, then she actually COULD smell it. Mom’s eyes flew open and the first thing she noticed was that her hunger bar was half empty—or was it half full? The second thing she noticed was a family size, thin crust pizza covered in jalapenos and pineapple, steaming on the table in front of her. “What?” In a daze, she lifted a piece up, the ooey gooey cheese leaving a string connected to the other pieces, and took a bite.  “It’s so good!” She almost felt like crying. “How did you DO that?