Pineapple Street Quotes

Young people, Lord. Do they still call it infatuation? That magic ax that chops away the world in one blow, leaving only the couple standing there trembling? Whatever they call it, it leaps over anything, takes the biggest chair, the largest slice, rules the ground wherever it walks, from a mansion to a swamp, and its selfishness is its beauty. Before I was reduced to singsong, I saw all kinds of mating. Most are two-night stands trying to last a season. Some, the riptide ones, claim exclusive right to the real name, even though everybody drowns in its wake. People with no imagination feed it with sex—the clown of love. They don’t know the real kinds, the better kinds, where losses are cut and everybody benefits. It takes a certain intelligence to love like that—softly, without props. But the world is such a showpiece, maybe that’s why folks try to outdo it, put everything they feel onstage just to prove they can think up things too: handsome scary things like fights to the death, adultery, setting sheets afire. They fail, of course. The world outdoes them every time. While they are busy showing off, digging other people’s graves, hanging themselves on a cross, running wild in the streets, cherries are quietly turning from greed to red, oysters are suffering pearls, and children are catching rain in their mouths expecting the drops to be cold but they’re not; they are warm and smell like pineapple before they get heavier and heavier, so heavy and fast they can’t be caught one at a time. Poor swimmers head for shore while strong ones wait for lightning’s silver veins. Bottle-green clouds sweep in, pushing the rain inland where palm trees pretend to be shocked by the wind. Women scatter shielding their hair and men bend low holding the women’s shoulders against their chests. I run too, finally. I say finally because I do like a good storm. I would be one of those people in the weather channel leaning into the wind while lawmen shout in megaphones: ‘Get moving!

There were things you could do with family that you just couldn’t do with friends: You could let them see you wearing the same outfit three days in a row. You could invite them over for lunch and then mostly ignore them as you finally got off hold with the internet provider. You could have an entire conversation while wearing Crest Whitestrips.

She was a receptacle for an emotional outburst, the human equivalent of screaming into a pillow.

Her own family was a restaurant booth—you could always scoot in and make space for one more. Cord’s family was a table with chairs, and those chairs were bolted to the floor.

People could change. People could evolve. Who was she to hold him to some strict moral standard? Everything she had believed about herself had gone out the window when she fell in love with Brady. Good people did fucked-up things.

Competition was their family love language.

she belonged entirely to that moment.

the wrong guests could ruin even the best parties.

While they are busy showing off, digging other people’s graves, hanging themselves on a cross, running wild in the streets, cherries are quietly turning from green to red, oysters are suffering pearls, and children are catching rain in their mouths expecting the drops to be cold but they’re not; they are warm and smell like pineapple before they get heavier and heavier, so heavy and fast they can’t be caught one at a time. Poor swimmers head for shore while strong ones wait for lightning’s silver veins. Bottle-green clouds sweep in, pushing the rain inland where palm trees pretend to be shocked by the wind.

Tilda was hard for her to talk to; she was of a generation that despised difficult conversations, and shut down at the slightest hint of conflict or unpleasantness. When Georgiana was a teenager, she found this infuriating, every venture at true closeness put on ice.

Hey.” Curtis caughCurtis admitted sheet her arm. “Are you seeing anyone?

But I can’t control that right now. I can only control what I do with my life.

Without tennis they were like two strangers who both happened to have the exact same ears.

I’m worried that my kids will look back and see a country that completely abandoned morality, that let people die of hunger while the wealthy took tax breaks.

Darley’s children were obsessed with death. They were five and six, and everyone said this was developmentally normal, but Darley secretly worried it meant they were tortured souls who would get face tattoos

But you know foundations shouldn't have to be the answer. The real problems are tax laws, anti-labor policies, and the slow expansion of the welfare state," Chip said. Everyone turned and looked at him as though the dog had begun speaking Dutch.

It was the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon, whereby once you noticed something new you saw it all over the place. Had Curtis McCoy always been bumping around the periphery of her life and she’d just never noticed? Because he was suddenly impossible to avoid.

Mother used to shape and score the Spam, arrange the rings of pineapple, then pour a little maple syrup over it and bake it so that it came out looking almost exactly like a miniature glazed ham, and we used to have it with yams on which we melted margarine.

She felt lonely and pathetic, but she knew that all across the city there were girls just like her who had spent their Saturday nights waiting for something to happen, nursing a drink or reading a paperback in a coffee shop or scrolling endlessly on their phones, alone and biding their time until their real life would begin.

People with no imagination feed it with sex—the clown of love. They don’t know the real kinds, the better kinds, where losses are cut and everybody benefits. It takes a certain intelligence to love like that—softly, without props. But the world is such a showpiece, maybe that’s why folks try to outdo it, put everything they feel onstage just to prove they can think up things too: handsome scary things like fights to the death, adultery, setting sheets afire. They fail, of course. The world outdoes them every time. While they are busy showing off, digging other people’s graves, hanging themselves on a cross, running wild in the streets, cherries are quietly turning from green to red, oysters are suffering pearls, and children are catching rain in their mouths expecting the drops to be cold but they’re not; they are warm and smell like pineapple before they get heavier and heavier, so heavy and fast they can’t be caught one at a time. Poor swimmers head for shore while strong ones wait for lightning’s silver veins. Bottle-green clouds sweep in, pushing the rain inland where palm trees pretend to be shocked by the wind. Women scatter shielding their hair and men bend low holding the women’s shoulders against their chests. I run too, finally. I say finally because I do like a good storm. I would be one of those people on the weather channel leaning into the wind while lawmen shout in megaphones: “Get moving!

The other thing, the thing that sucked to talk about, was the secret lurking worry that other people were using them. Using them for their weekend homes, their good alcohol, their big apartments, their parties, their internships, their closets, their, well, their money. Darley saw it all the time to varying degrees—guys who bought their girlfriends jewelry and laptops and paid for expensive vacations, only for them to realize the guys were essentially bribing their way into a relationship; guys who amassed crowds of hangers-on when they paid for bottle service or houses in the Hamptons. There was a difference between sharing your good fortune and being taken advantage of, and sometimes discerning the difference could break your heart.

We called it a night, heading back to my friend's apartment, craving buttered toast and water. As we walked we exchanged stories of ludicrous encounters with guys, the things they would say and do. 'One time this guy at a coffee shop,' 'one time my friend's brother,' 'one time my philosophy professor,' 'one time...' 'Where are you ladies going?' A black Mustang was rumbling at the stoplight with three heavyset guys inside, snug in their seats. 'Do you want to come to the club?' The club! I felt dehydrated, vodka and tiny pineapples streaming through me, my mind filled with stories of 'one times', and suddenly I was delusional over how much I was expected to tolerate. The street was mostly empty, we were blocks away from the bars; nothing but houses with black windows and dormant Greyhound buses. I walked into the middle of the empty street, clenched my fists, threw back my head, and started screaming.

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?

biding their time until their real life would begin.

He was a WASP through and through, deeply uncomfortable with conflict.

Love was often gross, really.

I’m not sure what I did wrong, but I just feel like your sisters don’t like me.” “What are you talking about? That’s not true.” Cord patted her back and tried to leave the room. He was a WASP through and through, deeply uncomfortable with conflict.

Georgiana might radiate out into something truly good.

Tilda had actually hit them where it hurt.

When Sasha was ten she had such an intense crush on Harrison Ford that sometimes she would lie in bed and cry with deep sorrow that they would never be together. She knew it was weird. He was a grown man and a famous actor and she was a child with a dawning awareness that little hairs were growing up and down her legs, and it all compounded into a tragedy so devastating that she could barely stand to watch him in movies when anyone else was in the room. Her brothers obviously noticed her mooning after him and taunted her mercilessly. Later in life, when she saw in some celebrity magazine at the nail salon that Harrison got an earring, she felt embarrassed all over again that she had been obsessed with someone so old.

Darley checked the app and clocked that her mother’s party at the Hotel Bossert had sold for forty-four hundred dollars, a terrific price.

Of course, she never told anyone in her family that story. Her mother would be furious with her for having unprotected sex; she would ban Mullin from the house. She had no idea how her father and brothers would react, but part of her suspected they would find her at fault. And it was her fault. She trusted someone who didn’t have her best interests at heart.

She didn’t resent them for growing up with money—Sasha had led a lucky life herself. She had never skipped a class field trip, she had taken piano lessons and gymnastics and played softball in the town league. But she also vacuumed her own bedroom, loaded the dishwasher after dinner, took out the trash on her night. Cord never even wiped out the sink after he shaved, so sure someone else would be along to do it.

Guilty as charged. Insane I bought the thing. You know what they say: If it flies or floats, rent it.” That was, in fact, not the expression. Darley had heard it a million times: “If it flies, floats, or fucks, rent it.” Paying for a plane, a boat, or a wife was a waste of money. She appreciated this stranger’s sense of decorum.

Georgiana, his younger sister, would ostensibly be talking to everyone, but Sasha noticed her eyes never left her siblings. Their family was a unit, a closed circuit Sasha couldn’t ever seem to penetrate.

You cleaned the lines on the clay tennis court after a match; you never wore denim to the club; you didn’t show up with wet hair; you said “Nice to see you,” never “Nice to meet you,” even if there was no conceivable way you’d ever crossed paths before in your life.

she looked calm and emanated a force Sasha usually associated with people who did lots of yoga or rubbed CBD lotion on their bodies.

I live in Brooklyn. By choice. —Truman Capote

Sir Ross introduced a new topic of conversation concerning some recently proposed amendments to the Poor Law, which both he and Gentry supported. Surprisingly, Sophia offered her own opinions on the subject, and the men listened attentively. Lottie tried to conceal her astonishment, for she had been taught for years that a proper woman should never express her opinions in mixed company. Certainly she should say nothing about politics, an inflammatory subject that only men were qualified to debate. And yet here was a man as distinguished as Sir Ross seeming to find nothing wrong in his wife’s speaking her mind. Nor did Gentry seem displeased by his sister’s outspokenness. Perhaps Gentry would allow her the same freedom. With that pleasant thought in her mind, Lottie consumed her pineapple cream, a rich, silky custard with a tangy flavor. Upon reaching the bottom of the pot, she thought longingly of how nice it would be to have another. However, good manners and the fear of appearing gluttonous made it unthinkable to request seconds. Noticing the wistful glance Lottie gave her empty dish, Gentry laughed softly and slid his own untouched dessert to her plate. “You have even more of a taste for sweets than little Amelia,” he murmured in her ear. His warm breath caused the hair on the back of her neck to rise. “We didn’t have desserts at school,” she said with a sheepish smile. He took his napkin and dabbed gently at the corner of her mouth. “I can see that I’ll have a devil of a time trying to compensate for all the things you were deprived of. I suppose you’ll want sweets with every meal now.

Little crab-butt got a fantastic review last night and since then, she’s been going around telling all the promoters and directors that a certain dancer is past her prime. That your fears of being replaced are what led you to a mental breakdown and that, that is why you had to pull out of the show.” “I’ll kill her!” Kiara slammed her glass down on the table and started toward Elfa. Shera grabbed her arm. “Not now. There are too many promoters here for you to cause a scene. If you start something, she’ll tell them you’re too temperamental and impossible to work with. You’ll prove her points.” Kiara clenched her fists at her sides, wanting to jerk every strand of hair out of Elfa’s head. Shera patted her arm. “Let it go, little sister. Beat her where it counts most. On the street and at the box office. I promise you her paltry review was nothing compared to the ones you get.” Shera’s laugh returned. “Besides, think of this, I had to let your costume out two sizes to accommodate her fat ass.” In spite of herself and her anger, Kiara laughed. “Did you really?” Shera nodded. “She’s shaped like a pineapple, lumps and all. And red isn’t that girl’s color. Looks ghastly on her.

She felt lonely and pathetic, but she knew that all across the city there were girls just like her who had spent their saturday nights waiting for something to happen, nursing a drink or reading a paperback in a coffee shop or scrolling endlessly on their phones, alone and biding their time until their real l ife would begin.

She felt lonely and pathetic, but she knew that all across the city there were girls just like her who had spent their Saturday nights waiting for something to happen, nursing a drink or reading a paperback in a coffee shop or scrolling endlessly on their phones, alone and biding their time until their real life would begin.

caughCurtis admitted sheet her arm.

Keener, then everything directed by Nancy Meyers, and they both cried during Father of the Bride and had to rewind and watch the part again where Steve Martin plays basketball with his daughter.

turned off the light and backed out of the room, full of the understanding that her children were going to be totally fucked up.

Chip and Tilda had never seen her childhood home, had barely spent time with her parents, but as Sasha spoke, she was surprised by the ease with which she told her story.

Little Debbie is all kindness and cream-filled cakes. Wendy looks like Conan O’Brien with braids and smells like hamburger grease.

Georgiana didn’t need to be his girlfriend; she didn’t need to stake that claim, because she knew, completely and positively, that everything she felt for Brady was reciprocated, that they could call it friendship and he would still look at her in a way that made her insides go hot and electric. They were friends with benefits, and for Georgiana that benefit was that she was sleeping with someone she loved completely.

Early on she had identified Malcolm as an ally in the strange world that was siblings by marriage, and they even had a code they muttered when things got really weird: NMF. It stood for “not my family,” and it exonerated them from any situation where they felt like outside witnesses to bizarre WASP rituals, like the time in July when the Stocktons had insisted on taking a professional family photo for their Christmas card and made them all wear shades of blue and white and stand in a semicircle around Chip and Tilda, who were seated in two chairs.

But being with you and being with your family saved me.

She pressed Send and listened to the whoosh as her missive made its way across the air, chopped into little data packets, hopped between hubs, carried by the airlines of cyberspace to reassemble before Curtis’s eyes.

her mother hadn’t eaten bread since the 1970s.

As a teenager he started a blog about the different features of various plane models that was so thorough that Boeing had linked to it on their website.

Tilda was obsessed with teeth.

She briefly hated her own brain. “It looks fine. What’s the problem

It was stunning how casual lying was woven into most married life. Her friend

She locked herself out of her own inheritance and bet all her chips on love.

Cody Hunter, who happily but unknowingly deflowered her in a single, extra-long bed that smelled of Axe body spray and lacrosse pads.

Tennis players were notoriously intense.

Georgiana, you’ve lost weight,” her mother said approvingly. She was always the first to notice even the most infinitesimal of fluctuations in Georgiana’s figure. “Do you have a new beau?

1 pineapple ½ lemon 250ml coconut milk 60ml water 100g sugar 30g coconut flakes 1 teaspoon ginger ¼ teaspoon vanilla extract Pinch salt

The dessert plates were arranged with delicate biscuits and pineapple cream served in cunning little glazed pots. Sir Ross introduced a new topic of conversation concerning some recently proposed amendments to the Poor Law, which both he and Gentry supported. Surprisingly, Sophia offered her own opinions on the subject, and the men listened attentively. Lottie tried to conceal her astonishment, for she had been taught for years that a proper woman should never express her opinions in mixed company. Certainly she should say nothing about politics, an inflammatory subject that only men were qualified to debate. And yet here was a man as distinguished as Sir Ross seeming to find nothing wrong in his wife's speaking her mind. Nor did Gentry seem displeased by his sister's outspokenness. Perhaps Gentry would allow her the same freedom. With that pleasant thought in her mind, Lottie consumed her pineapple cream, a rich, silky custard with a tangy flavor. Upon reaching the bottom of the pot, she thought longingly of how nice it would be to have another. However, good manners and the fear of appearing gluttonous made it unthinkable to request seconds. Noticing the wistful glance Lottie gave her empty dish, Gentry laughed softly and slid his own untouched dessert to her plate. "You have even more of a taste for sweets than little Amelia," he murmured in her ear. His warm breath caused the hair on the back of her neck to rise. "We didn't have desserts at school," she said with a sheepish smile. He took his napkin and dabbed gently at the corner of her mouth. "I can see that I'll have a devil of a time trying to compensate for all the things you were deprived of. I suppose you'll want sweets with every meal now." Pausing in the act of lifting her spoon, Lottie stared into the warm blue eyes so close to hers, and suddenly she felt wreathed in heat. Ridiculous, that all he had to do was speak with that caressing note in his voice, and she could be so thoroughly undone.

pineapple 1 banana 200g dark chocolate 100ml golden rum 4 tablespoons shredded coconut 2-3 tablespoons honey

pineapple 1 banana 200g dark chocolate 100ml golden rum 4 tablespoons shredded coconut 2-3 tablespoons honey ½ lemon