Pizza Date Quotes

Let me ask you something, in all the years that you have...undressed in front of a gentleman has he ever asked you to leave? Has he ever walked out and left? No? It's because he doesn't care! He's in a room with a naked girl, he just won the lottery. I am so tired of saying no, waking up in the morning and recalling every single thing I ate the day before, counting every calorie I consumed so I know just how much self loathing to take into the shower. I'm going for it. I have no interest in being obese, I'm just through with the guilt. So this is what I'm going to do, I'm going to finish this pizza, and then we are going to go watch the soccer game, and tomorrow we are going to go on a little date and buy ourselves some bigger jeans.

People use the word 'love' a lot of different ways. Take me, for instance. I am often heard saying that I love my mom and dad. I am also often heard saying that I love pizza. What am I saying when I say I love my mom and dad? I'm saying that I care about them. I'm saying that I love spending time with them and that I talk to them every chance I get. I'm saying that if they needed me, I would do every humanly possible to help them. I'm saying that I always want what's best for them. What am I saying when I say I love pizza? Am I saying that I care deeply about pizza? Am I saying that I have a relationship with pizza? Am I saying that if pizza had a problem, I would be there for the pizza? (What? Not enough pepperoni? I'll be right there!) Of course not. When I say I love pizza, I'm just saying that I enjoy eating pizza until I don't want any more pizza. Once I'm tired of the pizza, I don't care what happens to the rest of it. I'll throw it away. I'll feed it to the dog. I'll stick it in the back of the refrigerator until it gets all green and moldy. It doesn't matter to me anymore. These are two very different definition of the word 'love'. It gets confusing when people start talking about love, and especially about loving you. Which way do these people love you? Do they want what is best for you, or do they just want you around because it is good for them, and they don't really care what happens to you? Next time someone looks deeply into your eyes and says 'I love you', look very deeply right back and say, 'Would that be pizza love, or the real thing?

Annabeth and I were relaxing on the Great Lawn in Central Park when she ambushed me with a question. “You forgot, didn’t you?” I went into red-alert mode. It’s easy to panic when you’re a new boyfriend. Sure, I’d fought monsters with Annabeth for years. Together we’d faced the wrath of the gods. We’d battled Titans and calmly faced death a dozen times. But now that we were dating, one frown from her and I freaked. What had I done wrong? I mentally reviewed the picnic list: Comfy blanket? Check. Annabeth’s favorite pizza with extra olives? Check. Chocolate toffee from La Maison du Chocolat? Check. Chilled sparkling water with twist of lemon? Check. Weapons in case of sudden Greek mythological apocalypse? Check. So what had I forgotten? I was tempted (briefly) to bluff my way through. Two things stopped me. First, I didn’t want to lie to Annabeth. Second, she was too smart. She’d see right through me. So I did what I do best. I stared at her blankly and acted dumb.

When it seems impossible that a deep connection with another person could just go away instead of changing form. It seems impossible that you will one day look up and say the words "I used to date someone who lived in that building," referring to a three-year relationship. As simple as if it was a pizza place that is now a dry cleaner's. It happens. Keep walking.

Nine hours, two pizzas, one fight, three instances of vomiting, a million whistles, tons of snacks, and countless drinks later, we learned that I could have one drink every eighteen minutes, or three in one hour. Absolutely no more. Even with my body's ability to burn the alcohol, I was what my father deemed a "lightweight" or "cheap date.

because six-year-olds don’t have real interests aside from double Dutch and Pizza Lunchables.

Since I am in this pain, the pain of having what is special taken from me, I look inside myself and I don’t like what I see: a man who is broken and alone. I think of all the time Lily and I spent together, just the two of us—the talks about boys, the Monopoly, the movies, the pizza nights—and I wonder how much of it was real. Dogs don’t eat pizza; dogs don’t play Monopoly. I know this on some level, but everything feels so true. How much of it was an elaborate construct to mask my own loneliness? How much of it was built to convince myself the attempts I made at real life—therapy, dating—were not just that: attempts?

There are lots of girls out there, Joshy. You’ll probably date a bunch of them. Or maybe you’ll only date a few. But one day, you’ll find the one.” He’d given Josh an all-knowing smile and wiped his hands on a napkin. “It will probably knock you over when you least expect it. At least that’s what happened with me. Your mother walked into my Biology 101 lab in college and there was something about her that made me take notice. We were lab partners and I could hardly focus on what we needed to do. I asked her out before we left the room. We were engaged a year later, but I knew right away I’d marry her someday. And every day I spent with her only made me more certain. She’d look at me in this special way…and my heart would melt. I wanted to make all her dreams come true and you know what? I’ve spent my life trying. I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love your mother and I never will.” And with that, his father had picked up another slice of pizza. “Someday you’ll find the one. And I can’t wait to meet her once you do.

For dinner, we had thin-crust pizza at a place called Panjo's. Daddy said that it was his favourite and that he ate there a lot. He said the last time he'd been there, he'd come with a woman from work, on a date. He said he'd liked her quite a bit until she took out a cigarette. The he realised she was stupid. I thought she was stupid, too, not because she smoked, but because she'd gone on a date with Daddy.

On the way to after-prom, Peter says he’s hungry, and can we stop at the diner first. “I think there’s going to be pizza at after-prom,” I say. “Why don’t we just eat there?” “But I want pancakes,” he whines. We pull into the diner parking lot, and after we park, he gets out of the car and runs around to the passenger side to open my door. “So gentlemanly tonight,” I say, which makes him grin. We walk up to the diner, and he opens the door for me grandly. “I could get used to this royal treatment,” I say. “Hey, I open doors for you,” he protests. We walk inside, and I stop short. Our booth, the one we always sit in, has pale pink balloons tied around it. There’s a round cake in the center of the table, tons of candles, pink frosting with sprinkles and Happy Birthday, Lara Jean scrawled in white frosting. Suddenly I see people’s heads pop up from under the booths and from behind menus--all of our friends, still in their prom finery: Lucas, Gabe, Gabe’s date Keisha, Darrell, Pammy, Chris. “Surprise!” everyone screams. I spin around. “Oh my God, Peter!” He’s still grinning. He looks at his watch. “It’s midnight. Happy birthday, Lara Jean.

After graduating from college, I was expected to find a good job. I didn't and instead dove into entrepreneurial ventures. My family thought I was crazy and proclaimed, “You're wasting a five-year education!” Peers thought I was delusional. Oh dear, delivering pizza and chauffeuring limousines while two business degrees hung from the wall?! Women wouldn't date me because I broke the professional, “college-educated” mold the fairy tale espoused. Going Fastlane and building momentum will require you to turn your back at the people who fart headwinds in your direction. You have to break free of society's gravitational force and their expectations. If you aren't mindful to this natural gravity, life can denigrate into a viscous self-perpetuating cycle, which is society's prescription for normal: Get up, go to work, come home, eat, watch a few episodes of Law and Order, go to bed … then repeat, day after day after day.

We won! We won!" Daisy jumped up and down and threw her arms around Liam, nearly knocking him over as she pressed her lips to his in a delighted kiss. Her lips were soft and warm and sweet with chocolate. The shock of them short-circuited his brain and for a moment he couldn't breathe. And then he was pressing her lips apart, hungry for her, desperate for more. She softened against him, sighed. He braced himself for her to retreat, but instead, she tightened her arms around him and kissed him back, her tongue tangling with his as she explored his mouth. "Pizza!" She pulled away, leaving him floundering, his brain struggling to understand why someone was shoving a box in his face when all he wanted was her sweet lips and her soft body and her sigh of surrender. "Pizza selfie." Daisy held up her phone and took a picture of them with the pizza box angled in the corner. She laughed when she showed him the screen. This time he was the one who looked dazed.

As he looked around the computer, he realized the PC was acting as the back-end system for the point-of-sale terminals at the restaurant—it collected the day’s credit card transactions and sent them in a single batch every night to the credit card processor. Max found that day’s batch stored as a plain text file, with the full magstripe of every customer card recorded inside. Even better, the system was still storing all the previous batch files, dating back to when the pizza parlor had installed the system about three years earlier.

I may just have one or two of your favorite films waiting downstairs for you. We could even order some pizza and dine in style. Is it a date?” “A real date! I accept!” I almost squealed, and then, trying to dampen my enthusiasm, continued, “Only since you claim you’ll be such boring company, of course. Otherwise I’d be fine just sitting here, staring into your eyes all night.” Vincent paused, looking at me suspiciously for a second, and then, grinning, asked, “Sarcasm?” “Yes,” I laughed. “You’re pretty quick for an old guy.” “Damn, and I thought I had finally found a true romantic,” 

My first impression of him was that he was free spirited, clever, funny. That proved to be completely inaccurate. We left the party together and walked around for hours, lied to each other about our happy lives, ate pizza at midnight, took the Staten Island Ferry back and forth and watched the sun rise. I gave him my phone number at the dorm. By the time he finally called me, two weeks later, I’d become obsessed with him. He kept me on a long, tight leash for months—expensive meals, the occasional opera or ballet. He took my virginity at a ski lodge in Vermont on Valentine’s Day. It wasn’t a pleasurable experience, but I trusted he knew more about sex than I did, so when he rolled off and said, “That was amazing,” I believed him. He was thirty-three, worked for Fuji Bank at the World Trade Center, wore tailored suits, sent cars to pick me up at my dorm, then the sorority house sophomore year, wined and dined me, and asked for head with no shame in the back of cabs he charged to the company account. I took this as proof of his masculine value. My “sisters” all agreed; he was “suave.” And I was impressed by how much he liked talking about his emotions, something I’d never seen a man do. “My mom’s a pothead now, and that’s why I have this deep sadness.” He took frequent trips to Tokyo for work and to San Francisco to visit his twin sister. I suspected she discouraged him from dating me.

The milk is long since out of date, the bread all has mold and I think you could start a bacterial plague with what’s in the crisper here…” “Order a pizza,” he suggested. “There’s a place down on the corner that still owes me ten pizzas, paid for in advance.” “You can’t eat pizza for breakfast!” “Why can’t I? I’ve been doing it for a week.” “You can cook,” she said accusingly. “When I’m sober,” he agreed. She glowered at him and went back to her chore. “Well, the eggs are still edible, barely, and there’s an unopened pound of bacon. I’ll make an omelet.” He collapsed into the chair at the kitchen table while she made a fresh pot of coffee and set about breaking eggs. “You look very domesticated like that,” he pointed out with a faint smile. “After we have breakfast, why don’t you come to bed with me?” She gave him a shocked glance. “I’m pregnant,” she reminded him. He nodded and laughed softly. “Yes, I know. It’s an incredible turn-on.” Her hand stopped, poised in midair with a spoon in it. “Wh…What?” “The eggs are burning,” he said pleasantly. She stirred them quickly and turned the bacon, which was frying in another pan. He thought her condition was sexy? She couldn’t believe he was serious. But apparently he was, because he watched her so intently over breakfast that she doubted if he knew what he was eating. “Mr. Hutton told the curator of the museum in Tennessee that I wasn’t coming back, and he paid off the rent on my house there,” she said. “I don’t even have a home to go to…” “Yes, you do,” he said quietly. “I’m your home. I always have been.” She averted her eyes to her plate and hated the quick tears that her condition prompted. Her fists clenched. “And here we are again,” she said huskily. “Where?” he asked. She drew in a harsh breath. “You’re taking responsibility for me, out of duty.” He leaned back in his chair. The robe came away from his broad, bronzed chest as he stared at her. “Not this time,” he replied with a voice so tender that it made ripples right through her heart. “This time, it’s out of love, Cecily.” Cecily doubted her own ears. She couldn’t have heard Tate saying that he wanted to take care of her because he loved her. He wasn’t teasing. His face was almost grim. “I know,” he said. “You don’t believe it. But it’s true, just the same.” He searched her soft, shocked green eyes. “I loved you when you were seventeen, Cecily, but I thought I had nothing to offer you except an affair.” He sighed heavily. “It was never completely for the reasons I told you, that I didn’t want to get married. It was my mother’s marriage. It warped me. It’s taken this whole scandal to make me realize that a good marriage is nothing like the one I grew up watching. I had to see my mother and Matt together before I understood what marriage could be.

What do you typically like to do on a first date with a woman?" "That answer depends on the woman, since you're not all the same. Some women actually would enjoy beer and pool on a Friday night"---he stopped to give her a raised brow to emphasize his statement---"while others would want to have dinner at a nice restaurant. Some might want to hang out at home, order pizza and watch a movie just so we could talk and get to know each other. Another woman might be more interested in going to see a basketball game. Or maybe go to a museum." "And you'd be interested in doing any of those things." He shrugged. "I'm interested in doing a lot of different things. I'm not just a rancher. I like to get out of my element and learn something new." She stared at him. Dammit. She loved that answer. He really thought about what a woman might want to do. And he was open to new experiences. A lot of guys just did their own thing, expecting the woman to fall in line. "That's...very nice.

sighed. “I can’t say that you weren’t expected.” “I’m just going to be walking around here and taking some measurements. It says here… you own eighty acres? That is one of the most gorgeous mansions I have ever seen,” he rambled on. “It must have cost you millions. I could never afford such a beauty. Well, heck, for that matter I couldn’t afford the millions of dollars in taxes a house like this would assess, let alone such a pricey property. Do you have an accountant?” Zo opened her mouth to respond, but he continued, “For an estate this size, I would definitely have one.” “I do have an accountant,” she cut in, with frustration. “Furthermore, I have invested a lot of money bringing this mansion up to speed. You can see my investment is great.” “Of course, it would be. The fact of the matter is, Mrs. Kane, a lot of people are in over their heads in property. You still have to pay up, or we take the place. Well, I’ll get busy now. Pay no mind to me.” He walked on, taking notes. “Clairrrrre!” Zo called as soon as she entered the house. “Bring your cell phone!” Two worry-filled months went by and many calls were made to lawyers, before Zoey finally picked one that made her feel confident. And then the letter came with the totals and the due date. “There is no way we can pay this, Mom, even if we sold off some of our treasures, because a lot of them are contracted to museums anyway. I am feeling awfully poor all of a sudden, and insecure.” “Yes, and I did some research, thinking I’d be forced to sell. It’s unlikely that anyone else around here can afford this place. It looks like they are going to get it all; they aren’t just charging for this year. What we have here is a value about equal to a little country. And all the new construction sites for housing developments suddenly popping up on this side of the river, does not help. Value is going up.” Zo put her head in her hands. “Ohhh, oh, oh, oh!” “Yeah, bring out the ice-cream and cake. I need comforting,” sighed Claire. The cell phone rang. “Yes, tonight? You guys have become pretty good to us, haven’t you?! You know, Bob, Mom and I thought we were just going to pig out on ice cream and cake. We found out we are losing this estate and are going to be poor again and we are bummed out.” There was a long pause. “No, that’s okay, I understand. Yeah, okay, bye.” “Well?” Zo ask dryly. “He was appropriately sorry, and he got off the phone fast, saying he remembered he had other business to take care of. Do you want to cry? I do…” “I’ll get the cake and dish the ice cream. You make our tea and we’ll cry together.” A pitter patter began to drum on the window. “Rain again. It seems softer though, dear.” “I thought you said this was going to be a softer rain!” It started to pour. “At least this is not a thunder storm… What was that?” “Thunder,” replied Claire, unmoved and resigned. An hour had gone by when there was a rapping at the door. “People rarely use the doorbell, ever notice that?” Zo asked on the way to the door. She opened it to reveal two wet guys holding a pizza, salad, soft drink, and giant chocolate chip cookies in a plastic container. In a plastic

As Japan recovered from the post-war depression, okonomiyaki became the cornerstone of Hiroshima's nascent restaurant culture. And with new variables- noodles, protein, fishy powders- added to the equation, it became an increasingly fungible concept. Half a century later it still defies easy description. Okonomi means "whatever you like," yaki means "grill," but smashed together they do little to paint a clear picture. Invariably, writers, cooks, and oko officials revert to analogies: some call it a cabbage crepe; others a savory pancake or an omelet. Guidebooks, unhelpfully, refer to it as Japanese pizza, though okonomiyaki looks and tastes nothing like pizza. Otafuku, for its part, does little to clarify the situation, comparing okonomiyaki in turn to Turkish pide, Indian chapati, and Mexican tacos. There are two overarching categories of okonomiyaki Hiroshima style, with a layer of noodles and a heavy cabbage presence, and Osaka or Kansai style, made with a base of eggs, flour, dashi, and grated nagaimo, sticky mountain yam. More than the ingredients themselves, the difference lies in the structure: whereas okonomiyaki in Hiroshima is carefully layered, a savory circle with five or six distinct layers, the ingredients in Osaka-style okonomiyaki are mixed together before cooking. The latter is so simple to cook that many restaurants let you do it yourself on table side teppans. Hiroshima-style okonomiyaki, on the other hand, is complicated enough that even the cooks who dedicate their lives to its construction still don't get it right most of the time. (Some people consider monjayaki, a runny mass of meat and vegetables popularized in Tokyo's Tsukishima district, to be part of the okonomiyaki family, but if so, it's no more than a distant cousin.) Otafuku entered the picture in 1938 as a rice vinegar manufacturer. Their original factory near Yokogawa Station burned down in the nuclear attack, but in 1946 they started making vinegar again. In 1950 Otafuku began production of Worcestershire sauce, but local cooks complained that it was too spicy and too thin, that it didn't cling to okonomiyaki, which was becoming the nutritional staple of Hiroshima life. So Otafuku used fruit- originally orange and peach, later Middle Eastern dates- to thicken and sweeten the sauce, and added the now-iconic Otafuku label with the six virtues that the chubby-cheeked lady of Otafuku, a traditional character from Japanese folklore, is supposed to represent, including a little nose for modesty, big ears for good listening, and a large forehead for wisdom.

When we get closer, he pushes out both of the chairs across from him. He nods at them and says, “Take a seat.” I raise an eyebrow at him. “Am I going to have to woo you before I get my slice?” He smiles over the pizza that he’s about to bite into. “Yeah, I do believe you’re going to have to.” With zero self-respect, Amanda takes a seat and says, “That’s no problem with me.” Honestly. Does she not know how to avoid showing all her cards at once? When I take a seat, he holds out his hand. “I’m Aaron.” I take his hand and notice how rough it is. It’s a working hand, one that experiences strenuous hours on the jobsite, day in, day out. “Amelia, and this is my friend, Amanda.” Aaron nods at Amanda. “Nice to meet you.” “Pleasure is mine and just so you know, Amelia is single and definitely on the market. Want me to give you her number?” “Amanda, what the hell are you—?” “I would love it,” Aaron says, leaning back in his chair while sipping his drink. Slowly turning toward him, a little stunned, I ask, “You would?” He nods with all the confidence in the world. “I would.” “But you don’t know me. I could be a shovel-wielding rabbit killer.” He leans forward, his chest flexing under his shirt with the movement. “I’ll take my chances.” Now feeling a little skeptical, I fold my arms over my chest and ask, “Why do you want it?” He bites down on his straw and studies me for a second before saying, “Can’t let a girl walk out the door without getting her number who’s that passionate about Buffalo chicken pizza. It’s just not physically possible.” “Aw, he likes you for your crazy; he’s a keeper,” Amanda chimes in with her mouth full of pizza. “It’s 607—” “Amanda, just be quiet for a second.” Looking at Aaron, I say, “Three Buffalo chicken pizza slices in exchange for three veggie and my phone number.” “No way.” He shakes his head. “You can’t take all my Buffalo.” “But I thought you wanted my number.” “I do.” He leans forward some more, his fresh scent hitting me hard in the chest. “But we both know if I give you three slices, you will have zero respect for me because no man in his right mind would give up three Buffalo slices. No matter how hot the chick is.” Eeep, he thinks I’m hot. “But I will counter you with one and a half slices and a number.” I sit back now, watching how his smile starts to spread. God, he’s just so . . . yum. He looks like he’s quite a few years older than me. Not just because of his face, but there is something in his eyes that makes him seem older. He’s definitely not in his second year of college like me. Not wanting to fold so quickly, I counter. “Two slices, my number, and a guaranteed date this Friday.” He sits back, his eyes widen, and that smile gets even bigger. “Fucking deal.” He holds his hand out and we shake.

It had been often commented upon that Vibe offspring tended to be crazy as bedbugs. ‘Fax’s brother Cragmont had run away with a trapeze girl, then brought her back to New York to get married, the wedding being actually performed on trapezes, groom and best man, dressed in tails and silk opera hats held on with elastic, swinging upside down by their knees in perfect synchrony across the perilous Æther to meet the bride and her father, a carnival “jointee” or concessionaire, in matched excursion from their own side of the ring, bridesmaids observed at every hand up twirling by their chins in billows of spangling, forty feet above the faces of the guests, feathers dyed a deep acid green sweeping and stirring the cigar smoke rising from the crowd. Cragmont Vibe was but thirteen that circus summer he became a husband and began what would become, even for the day, an enormous family. The third brother, Fleetwood, best man at this ceremony, had also got out of the house early, fast-talking his way onto an expedition heading for Africa. He kept as clear of political games as of any real scientific inquiry, preferring to take the title of “Explorer” literally, and do nothing but explore. It did not hurt Fleetwood’s chances that a hefty Vibe trust fund was there to pick up the bills for bespoke pith helmets and meat lozenges and so forth. Kit met him one spring weekend out at the Vibe manor on Long Island. “Say, but you’ve never seen our cottage,” ‘Fax said one day after classes. “What are you doing this weekend? Unless there’s another factory girl or pizza princess or something in the works.” “Do I use that tone of voice about the Seven Sisters material you specialize in?” “I’ve nothing against the newer races,” ‘Fax protested. “But you might like to meet Cousin Dittany anyway.” “The one at Smith.” “Mount Holyoke, actually.” “Can’t wait.” They arrived under a dourly overcast sky. Even in cheerier illumination, the Vibe mansion would have registered as a place best kept clear of—four stories tall, square, unadorned, dark stone facing looking much older than the known date of construction. Despite its aspect of abandonment, an uneasy tenancy was still pursued within, perhaps by some collateral branch of Vibes . . . it was unclear. There was the matter of the second floor. Only the servants were allowed there. It “belonged,” in some way nobody was eager to specify, to previous occupants. “Someone’s living there?” “Someone’s there.” . . . from time to time, a door swinging shut on a glimpse of back stairway, a muffled footfall . . . an ambiguous movement across a distant doorframe . . . a threat of somehow being obliged to perform a daily search through the forbidden level, just at dusk, so detailed that contact with the unseen occupants, in some form, at some unannounced moment, would be inevitable . . . all dustless and tidy, shadows in permanent possession, window-drapes and upholstery in deep hues of green, claret, and indigo, servants who did not speak, who would or could not meet one’s gaze . . . and in the next room, the next instant, waiting . . . “Real nice of you to have me here, folks,” chirped Kit at breakfast. “Fellow sleeps like a top. Well, except . . .” Pause in the orderly gobbling and scarfing. Interest from all around the table. “I mean, who came in the room in the middle of the night like that?” “You’re sure,” said Scarsdale, “it wasn’t just the wind, or the place settling.” “They were walking around, like they were looking for something.” Glances were exchanged, failed to be exchanged, were sent out but not returned. “Kit, you haven’t seen the stables yet,” Cousin Dittany offered at last. “Wouldn’t you like to go riding?

First of all, I shouldn’t have ever had him come over to my apartment, if only because you don’t break up in person with somebody you like sleeping with. It’s dangerous. And if you do, yo do it in public so there’s no “one last time” sex, because that’s like saying you’re going to start a diet after you eat an entire pizza.

supplies he’d acquired during his eighteen months in Henrietta. Rumpled maps, computer printouts, ever-present journal, flashlight, willow stick. When Gansey plucked a digital recorder out of the mess, a pizza receipt (one large deep-dish, half sausage, half avocado) fluttered to the seat, joining a half-dozen receipts identical except for the date.

Reading about these meals is making me hungry," Isabetta declared one afternoon. Her finger ran down the page. "There is so much food. Even on a Lenten day these cardinali knew how to eat! Listen to this menu: pieces of gilded marzipan; radish and fennel salad; braised lampreys from the Tevere; fried trout with vinegar, pepper, and wine; white tourtes; razor clams; grilled oysters; pizza Neapolitan with almonds, dates, and figs; octopus and fish in the shape of chickens; fried sea turtle; prune crostatas; stuffed pears with sugar; elderflower fritters; candied almonds... Oh, the list goes on and on!

But… higher beings? Really? We literally came from below them. And they were the ones who’d made all the good stuff. Pizza and TV and those little patches you could put on your pimples to make them practically vanish overnight.

I’ve never had a boyfriend.” His hands slowly lower to the plate, pizza slice forgotten. “Never?” “No. Nothing… confirmed. I haven’t really been on dates, either. Before this past year.

who needs a fancy mansion or an up-to-date apartment with a gym when I can get You Want a Pizza Me delivered in ten minutes or less?

By the end of the night, all three of us girls were absolutely loaded to the gills with pizza. Daphne had half of her essay written. And, most importantly of all, I had an outfit for my date. And just, you know, a few days to stress myself the hell out about it.

TINY CRAB CAKES 1 egg 1½ cups fresh breadcrumbs (see Note) ¼ cup finely chopped scallions (2–3 scallions) 1 tablespoon mayonnaise 1 teaspoon lemon juice (juice of about ⅙ medium lemon) ½ teaspoon Worcestershire sauce ¼ teaspoon seafood seasoning mix, such as Old Bay 8 ounces fresh lump-style crabmeat, picked over 2–3 tablespoons vegetable oil Scallion brushes for garnish (optional; see page 19) MAKES ABOUT 24 MINI CAKES (4–6 SERVINGS) 1. To make the Curry-Orange Mayo, whisk together the mayonnaise, curry powder, orange zest, orange juice, and Tabasco in a small bowl. Refrigerate for at least 2 hours or up to 3 days. When ready to serve, transfer to a pretty bowl and sprinkle with the scallions. 2. To make the crab cakes, lightly beat the egg in a large bowl. Add ¾ cup of the breadcrumbs, the scallions, mayonnaise, lemon juice, Worcestershire sauce, and seasoning mix. Stir well to blend. Add the crabmeat and mix gently, being careful not to shred the crabmeat entirely. 3. Spread the remaining ¾ cup of breadcrumbs onto a plate. Form the crab mixture into 24 cakes, using a scant tablespoon for each one, and dredge lightly in the crumbs. Arrange on a wax paper-lined baking sheet. 4. Heat 2 tablespoons of the oil in one or two large skillets over medium heat. Cook the cakes until golden brown and crisp on one side, about 2 to 2½ minutes. Flip and repeat. The cakes should be hot inside. Repeat with any remaining cakes, adding more oil as necessary. Serve immediately, or place on a foil-lined baking sheet, wrap well, and refrigerate for up to 24 hours, or freeze for up to 2 weeks. 5. If you make the cakes ahead, remove from the refrigerator or freezer 30 minutes prior to reheating. Preheat the oven to 375°F. Bake the cakes until hot and crisp, 10 to 15 minutes. 6. Arrange on a platter with the sauce for dipping, and garnish with the scallion brushes, if desired. Note: Tear 3 slices of good-quality bread into pieces and whir in a food processor to make breadcrumbs. Portland Public Market The Portland Public Market, which opened in 1998, continues Maine’s long tradition of downtown public markets, dating back to the 19th century. Housed in an award-winning brick, glass, and wood structure, the market, which was the brainchild of Maine philanthropist Elizabeth Noyce, is a food-lover’s heaven. Vendors include organic produce farms; butchers selling locally raised meat; purveyors of Maine-made cheeses, sausages, and smoked seafood; artisan bakers; and flower sellers. Prepared take-away food includes Mexican delicacies, pizza, soups, smoothies, and sandwiches, and such well-known Portland culinary stars as Sam Hayward (see page 127) and Dana Street (see page 129) have opened casual dining concessions.

the last time her mother had made a desperate attempt to set Lorenda up on a date, she’d ended up eating frozen pizza with Clifford the maintenance man while he discussed the best methods of cleaning a toilet. For three foxtroting hours.

I'm not saying our daughter shouldn't have a birthday party. I'm just saying I could organize one in an hour. I'd order some pizzas, get a cake at the supermarket, organize some fun party games for little girls - 'Run Around Shrieking,' 'Run Around Shrieking Some More,' etc. - and boom, there's your party. I'm not saying it would be the greatest birthday celebration ever. For one thing, it would be roughly a month after my daughter's actual birthday, because I am not good with dates. But it would get the job done. My wife, on the other hand, believes the party should be along the lines of the Super Bowl halftime show, only more elaborate.

I’m so jealous,’ said Keri. ‘No more work, living with Mark Tipene . . . Shopping with Mark Tipene’s credit card . . .’ ‘That’s right,’ I said, wiping my eyes. ‘I’ll just float from lunch date to hair appointment to Pilates class.’ ‘You might want to wash the cow shit off your neck first,’ Nick said. ‘Pass the pizza, would you, Richard?’ ‘I’ve been in the clinic all afternoon,’ I said. ‘Could you not have mentioned the cow shit earlier?’ ‘It’s only a little smear. And it brings out your eyes.’ ‘Thank you. That’s so sweet.

When I was in my early twenties, I was head over heels for this woman. She was gorgeous. Just a real beauty. And full of life,” he said between bites of a garlic roll. Most of us like to assume, or wish, that our parents only had sex with each other, and only the necessary number of times it took to produce us and our siblings, so it was strange to hear my dad talk so highly about a woman other than my mother. He never had before, and I was intrigued. “So me and her, we dated for a while. A long while. Then, one day, we got to talking, and I told her how much I loved her, and she looked at me and told me, ‘I don’t love you. I never will,’” he continued. “I’ll have a sausage-and-pepperoni pizza with the salad,” he said, turning to the waitress, who had been awkwardly standing next to our table waiting for my dad to finish his story so she could take our order. I placed my order, and the waitress left. “So what’d you do?” I asked. “I told her I thought that I could change that. Maybe she didn’t love me right now, but she would eventually.” “What’d she say?” “She said okay. And we stayed together. And we fought. We fought a lot. And then I realized I had made a big mistake. She had given me her youth, and it was gone, and I didn’t know how to get out of it. And then she got sick. And she was dying,” he said, taking a deep breath, thinking for a moment, as if he were replaying something in his mind he hadn’t thought of in a long time. “So I made good with her, and I stuck by her. And then she died. And I felt horrible. Because I felt like here was this woman who didn’t want to be with me, she told me that, and I ignored it. And she was spending the end of her life with someone she didn’t love. And now she was gone. And part of me felt relieved that I was freed out of this relationship, and that made me feel so terrible, I couldn’t deal with it.

When we’re done, he motions toward my plate. “Are you doing better with your hypoglycemia?” I pause. We’ve never discussed the details of what happened last May, but he must have overheard me talking to the paramedics that day. “Is that why you always try to feed me? First the pizza and now waffles.” He gives me a sheepish smile. “I don’t know. Maybe. Is that wrong?” “No, it’s sweet. But I’m doing better. I haven’t had any episodes since the night we found Poppy. That was the last time I felt dizzy. I went too long without eating. It was an accident, really.” “What happened?” “A bad date.” “That dick Jason didn’t feed you?” I laugh at Rider’s intensity. “Jason’s idea of dinner was nachos from that gas station, which I passed on. That’s how I ended up light-headed later. But unless you’re planning on taking me on a bad date, we should be good.” Rider gives me a wolfish grin. “I plan on doing a lot of things with you. Bad dates aren’t one of them.

You could offer me a million dollars and a slice of pizza, and I still wouldn’t go on a date with the guy,

Sam requested that I wear a jockstrap at all times. I requested that he hand feed me pizza rolls at all times. We both had so many wants.

- Welcome to the 21st Century: Where SEX is FREE & LOVE is EXPENSIVE, where LOSING phone is more PAINFUL than LOSING your VIRGINITY, where MODERNIZATION means NUDITY, where if you don't SMOKE or DRINK you are out of FASHION, where if you don't CHEAT so you are not SMART, where the BATHROOMS have become PHOTO STUDIOS, where TEMPLES become DATING POINTS, where doing WORSHIP TO GOD is DIFFICULT, where LIES become REALITIES, where the WOMEN fear PREGNANCY more than STD's , where a PIZZA DELIVERY is FASTER than EMERGENCY RESPONSE. PERSPECTIVES & DRIP DECIDE the value of person, where the BOYS/GIRLS are AFRAID of MARRIAGE but they love HAVING SEX, where KILLING HUMAN is a PLEASURE,where INSULTING THE GOD becomes the TRENDS of the era, where REVILING is a COURAGE where whoever PLAYS the MINDS always get happiness but whoever PLAYS the HEART gets HURT ,.... MODERNITY LOVE and LIQUID EDUCATION !!!

Do you have an affinity for any character in particular?” MARTI: “Willow is probably closest to who I really was. I was an egghead, and I didn’t date until college. I was totally antisocial, and I was very, very, very shy. I couldn’t talk to boys. So I was much more Willow, although Willow is way cooler than I was. You know, there’s no one as geeky as me on this show. There’s nobody as awkward and introverted, and creepy as I was. I scared my friends. I was just a big drama nerd—I was too gregarious, too silly, then I would withdraw, and then I was too quiet. A couple of other girls and I were the biggest nerds in the universe. We were pizza-faced and just completely couldn’t talk. There was a hall that wasn’t actually a classroom, like an in-between place, called Room 6—it didn’t lead anywhere, it was just a dead end. We would stay in Room 6 because no one ever walked through there. That’s where we would hide so we wouldn’t have to talk to people. “It wasn’t the hardest time in my life, because I had a support system. I had what Buffy has. I had my Xander and my Willow and we had each other and we got through it. Man, thank God those weren’t my glory days. I hope my glory days are still ahead.” Marti Noxon

I watched her standing there, and a twinge of regret that this wasn’t a date washed over me. I couldn’t believe I had to give her up. When our food came out, she gave three tacos to Marv and we sat on the hood of the car to eat. “That was pretty sexy back there when you went Marine Corps on that guy,” she said as she pulled off her heels and chucked them through the open sunroof. “I wouldn’t have let him touch you.” I wouldn’t let anyone hurt her, ever. She took a sip of her Sprite. “I know. That’s what was sexy about it.” For all her claims that she found me sexy, it did me no good whatsoever. She didn’t want me. None of this would continue once her boyfriend was here. I wouldn’t be able to take her out for tacos or show up with pizza. I wouldn’t even be able to sit in her living room with her. I wondered if this thought had any effect on her, or was she just happy that her boyfriend was going to be home? Probably that last one. I sat looking out over the lot, a sucking sense of loss pulling on my heart. She was like a unicorn. A mythical creature. An honest, no-drama woman who didn’t bullshit and drank beer and cussed and didn’t care about what people thought of her. She was a unicorn, tucked in the body of an attractive woman with a great ass. And I couldn’t have her. So I should just stop thinking about it.

A few off-limits foods that fall under the “No baked goods, treats, or re-created junk foods” rule include pancakes, bread, tortillas, biscuits, crepes, muffins, cupcakes, cookies, pizza crust, waffles, cereal, potato chips, French fries, and that one recipe where eggs, date paste, and coconut milk are combined with prayers to create a thick, creamy concoction that can once again transform your undrinkable black coffee into sweet, dreamy caffeine.

Her favorite foods: this gives you an easy way to suggest future dates (e.g., “Pizza? I can make an awesome pizza. You might have to try it sometime!”).

I could do pizza,” I say it slowly, weighing my words. I’m going to regret it later because binging on pizza is a terrible idea with a weigh-in looming; I have to make my weight class or I’m fucked, but if this girl had suggested we eat a steaming pile of dog shit, I’d have gone along and eaten it without protest.

We window-shopped along Court Street, the closest thing Brooklyn has to Manhattan, perusing the indie clothing boutiques, bookstores, and Italian bakeries, and stopped at Frankies 457 Spuntino, a casual Italian restaurant that every young Brooklynite loves, to pound fresh ricotta, gnocchi, and meatballs. Afterward, I dragged us ten blocks out of the way to hit up Sugar Shop, a modern-retro candy store I loved, to load up on malt balls and gummies. We strolled the magnificent blocks of Victorian homes and green lawns in Ditmas Park, as if suddenly transported from the city's whirl to a faraway college town, perusing the rhubarb, Bibb lettuces, and buckets of fresh clams at the farmers' market, before demolishing fried egg sandwiches on ciabatta at the Farm on Adderly, one of the boroughs now-prolific farm-to-table restaurants. We shared pizza at Franny's: one red, one white, both pockmarked with giant charred blisters from the exceedingly hot brick oven. In a borough known for its temples of pizza worship, before it closed in the summer of 2017, Franny's was right up there, owing to the perfect flavors oozing from each simple ingredient, from the milky mozzarella to the salty-sweet tomato sauce to the briny black olives.