Pizza Pie Quotes

Don't be yourself, be a pizza. Everyone loves pizza.

A cardboard pizza across a yellow table. A friend, lost in a memory, but alive in the taste of a half-burnt brownie. Love in a lemon pie.

What's more American than violence?" Hayduke wanted to know. "Violence, it's as American as pizza pie.

Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout Would not take the garbage out! She'd scour the pots and scrape the pans, Candy the yams and spice the hams, And though her daddy would scream and shout, She simply would not take the garbage out. And so it piled up to the ceilings: Coffee grounds, potato peelings, Brown bananas, rotten peas, Chunks of sour cottage cheese. It filled the can, it covered the floor, It cracked the window and blocked the door With bacon rinds and chicken bones, Drippy ends of ice cream cones, Prune pits, peach pits, orange peel, Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal, Pizza crusts and withered greens, Soggy beans and tangerines, Crusts of black burned buttered toast, Gristly bits of beefy roasts. . . The garbage rolled on down the hall, It raised the roof, it broke the wall. . . Greasy napkins, cookie crumbs, Globs of gooey bubble gum, Cellophane from green baloney, Rubbery blubbery macaroni, Peanut butter, caked and dry, Curdled milk and crusts of pie, Moldy melons, dried-up mustard, Eggshells mixed with lemon custard, Cold french fried and rancid meat, Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat. At last the garbage reached so high That it finally touched the sky. And all the neighbors moved away, And none of her friends would come to play. And finally Sarah Cynthia Stout said, "OK, I'll take the garbage out!" But then, of course, it was too late. . . The garbage reached across the state, From New York to the Golden Gate. And there, in the garbage she did hate, Poor Sarah met an awful fate, That I cannot now relate Because the hour is much too late. But children, remember Sarah Stout And always take the garbage out!

If that’s how you react to my bringing over a baked Ziti, I now question the poor pizza boy, you know he’s all of eighteen, right? You can’t be accosting that boy, Noah, doesn’t matter how grateful you are he brings you a cheese pie.

He was like brandy I wanted to drink on a clear summer day, a golden afternoon I wanted to get lost in, an evening over cardboard pizza and lemon pie that was never the same twice.

Hundreds of words await ostracism from our functional vocabularies: waltz and fizz and squeeze and booze and frozen pizza pie, frizzy and fuzzy and dizzy and duzzy, the visualization of emphyzeema-zapped Tarzans, wheezing and sneezing, holding glazed and anodized bazookas, seized by all the bizarrities of this zany zone we call home. Dazed or zombified citizens who recognize hazardous organizations of zealots in their hazy midst, too late - too late to size down. Immobilized we iz. Minimalized. Paralyzed. Zip Zap. ZZZZZZZZZ. Crazy. Crazy. Did I say crazy?

With a sigh, he pulled out his link. "What are you doing?" "Ordering pizza -- for your division -- and more for the E and B team. And don't give me any bloody grief about it. I'm a bit on edge here as I couldn't get through the bloody, buggering door for more than five minutes -- and that was after Feeney started on it before me. And my wife about to be blown to bits on the other side." She knew the fear, the soul-emptying terror of it. She'd felt it for him a time or two. All she could do now was try to ease it. "I wasn't going to let that happen." "Weren't you now?" "Nope. I wasn't going to let the last words I said to you be 'Later, honey.'" Since it made him laugh, she sat back, closed her eyes for one blessed moment while she heard him ordering twenty-five (good God!) large pies with a variety of toppings.

So Sofie and I have come to Pizzeria da Michele, and these pies we have just ordered -- one for each of us -- are making us lose our minds. I love my pizza so much, in fact, that I have come to believe in my delerium that my pizza might actually love me, in return. I am having a relationship with this pizza, almost an affair. Meanwhile, Sofie is practically in tears over hers, she's having a metaphysical crisis about it, she's begging me, "Why do they even bother trying to make pizza in Stockholm? Why do we even bother eating food at all in Stockholm?

It must be really rough, forced to put on a beautiful dress, stick some diamonds or whatever all over you and choke down champagne and lobster croquettes beside the most beautiful man ever born, on or off planet. I don't know how you get through the day with that weight on your shoulders, Dallas." "Shut up." "And here I am, free to squeeze into the local pizza place with McNab where we will split the pie and the check." Peabody shook her head slowly. The dark bowl of hair under her cap swayed in conceit. "I can't tell you how guilty I feel knowing that." "You looking for trouble, Peabody?" "No, sir." Peabody did her best to look pious. "Just offering my support and sympathy at this difficult time.

Eating pizza is like having a little heaven in your nose. Wait, that's not what you eat pizza with. I always get it confused with pizza-pie.

What’s more American than violence?” Hayduke wanted to know. “Violence, it’s as American as pizza pie.

Foods Uniquely Designed to Screw Up Your Brain Bagels Biscuits Cake Cereal Milk chocolate/white chocolate Cookies Energy bars Crackers Doughnuts Muffins Pastas Pastries Pies Granola bars Pizza Pretzels Waffles Pancakes White bread Milkshakes Frozen yogurt Ice cream Batter Gravy Jams Jellies Fries Chips Granola

In early 2002, as part of a new personal ritual, he took time after the holidays to think and read. (In this respect, Microsoft’s Bill Gates, who also took such annual think weeks, served as a positive example.) Returning to the company after a few weeks, Bezos presented his next big idea to the S Team in the basement of his Medina, Washington, home. The entire company, he said, would restructure itself around what he called “two-pizza teams.” Employees would be organized into autonomous groups of fewer than ten people—small enough that, when working late, the team members could be fed with two pizza pies. These teams would be independently set loose on Amazon’s biggest problems.

Are oysters aphrodisiacs? For men, the smell of baked cinnamon buns had such a powerful impact on libido that it trumped the scents of a slew of various perfumes combined. Men were also strongly aroused by the scent of pumpkin pie, lavender, doughnuts, cheese pizza, buttered popcorn, vanilla and strawberries. The foods and smells that got women going more than anything else were licorice, banana nut bread, cucumbers, and candy.

Peabody, why don't I have any damn coffee?" "I don't know, sir, but I will rectify that immediately." Peabody popped up, was actually humming under her breath as she programmed the AutoChef. And there was a bright look in her eyes when she carried the coffee to Eve. "Eat any good pizza lately?" Eve muttered, and the light in Peabody's eyes turned instantly to embarrassed guilt. "Maybe. Just a slice ... or two." Eve leaned in. "Ate the whole damn pie, didn't you?" "It was really good pizza. I sort of, you know, missed the taste of it." "No more humming on duty." Peabody squared her shoulders. "No, sir. All humming will cease immediately." "And no sparkly-eye crap either," Eve added and yanked open the door to look for Louise. "You can look pretty sparkly-eyed after really good pizza, too," Peabody muttered, then decided not to press her luck when Eve snarled.

Under the twinkling trees was a table covered with Guatemalan fabric, roses in juice jars, wax rose candles from Tijuana and plates of food — Weetzie's Vegetable Love-Rice, My Secret Agent Lover Man's guacamole, Dirk's homemade pizza, Duck's fig and berry salad and Surfer Surprise Protein Punch, Brandy-Lynn's pink macaroni, Coyote's cornmeal cakes, Ping's mushu plum crepes and Valentine's Jamaican plantain pie. Witch Baby's stomach growled but she didn't leave her hiding place. Instead, she listened to the reggae, surf, soul and salsa, tugged at the snarl balls in her hair and snapped pictures of all the couples.

They were most peculiar. And they eat pizza pie.” “For breakfast?” “No, for lunch and dinner. But it’s not a pie at all, it’s a kind of bread with tomato sauce and cheese on it.” “Sounds dreadful.

It was haunting to be entangled in this obnoxious cycle. I want to get out of this viciousness. That pizza is staring at me. I think that slice of pie might hurt me. Thirty-five calories for an Oreo cookie; 75caloriesfor a slice of bread; 285 for a slice of pizza; 350for a plate of pasta. You know, maybe I’ll just study the digits of eggs, wheat, vegetables, apples, oranges. Ugh! Stop. It all hurts so much. That’s it. Make it stop. Please, I beg you. Just make it stop. I felt like the walking and living encyclopedia of numbers and digits.

I am the most pious person in the room. Even though I have no pie - I have pizza, and what can be more virtuous than eating all by yourself?

And that night he dreamed of the monkey again, one of its cymbals striking the Philco radio as it babbled out Dean Martin singing Whenna da moon hitta you eye like a big pizza pie ats-a moray, the radio tumbling into the bathtub as the monkey grinned and beat its cymbals together with a JANG and a JANG and a JANG; only it wasn’t the Italian rag-man who was in the tub when the water turned electric. It was him. •

In the restaurant kitchen, August meant lobsters, blackberries, silver queen corn, and tomatoes, tomatoes, tomatoes. In honor of the last year of the restaurant, Fiona was creating a different tomato special for each day of the month. The first of August (two hundred and fifty covers on the book, eleven reservation wait list) was a roasted yellow tomato soup. The second of August (two hundred and fifty covers, seven reservation wait list) was tomato pie with a Gruyère crust. On the third of August, Ernie Otemeyer came in with his wife to celebrate his birthday and since Ernie liked food that went with his Bud Light, Fiona made a Sicilian pizza- a thick, doughy crust, a layer of fresh buffalo mozzarella, topped with a voluptuous tomato-basil sauce. One morning when she was working the phone, Adrienne stepped into the kitchen hoping to get a few minutes with Mario, and she found Fiona taking a bite out of red ripe tomato like it was an apple. Fiona held the tomato out. "I'd put this on the menu," she said. "But few would understand.

So we wouldn't run out of things to talk about over lunch, I tried to read a trendy new short-story collection called Wok that I bought at Barnes & Noble last night and whose young author was recently profiled in the Fast Track section of New York magazine, but every story started off with the line "When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie" and I had to put this slim volume back into my bookshelf and drink a J&B on the rocks, followed by two Xanax, to recover from the effort.

I was settin’ at this restaurant When the waiter came up and said, “What do you want?” I looked at the menu—it looked so nice Till he said, “Let me give you a little advice.” He said, “Spaghetti and potatoes got too much starch, Pork chops and sausage are bad for your heart. There's hormones in chicken and beef and veal, Bowl of ravioli is a dead man’s meal. Bread's got preservatives, there's nitrites in ham, Artificial coloring in jellies and jam. Stay away from doughnuts, run away from pie, Pepperoni pizza is a sure way to die. Sugar’s gonna rot your teeth and make you put on weight, Artificial sweetener’s got cyclamates. Eggs are high cholesterol, too much fat in cheese, Coffee ruins your kidneys and so do teas. Fish got too much mercury, red meat is poison, Salt's gonna send your blood pressure risin’. Hot dogs and bologna got deadly red dyes, Vegetables and fruits are sprayed with pesticides.” So I said, “What can I eat that's gonna make me last?” He said, “A small drink of water in a sterilized glass.” And then he stopped and he thought for a minute, And said, “Never mind the water—there’s carcinogens in it.” So I got up from the table and walked out in the street, Realizin’ there was absolutely nothing I could eat. So I haven't eaten for a month and I don't feel too fine, But I know that I'll be healthy for a long, long time.

Every day the same things came up; the work was never done, and the tedium of it began to weigh on me. Part of what made English a difficult subject for Korean students was the lack of a more active principle in their learning. They were accustomed to receiving, recording, and memorizing. That's the Confucian mode. As a student, you're not supposed to question a teacher; you should avoid asking for explanations because that might reveal a lack of knowledge, which can be seen as an insult to the teacher's efforts. You don't have an open, free exchange with teachers as we often have here in the West. And further, under this design, a student doesn't do much in the way of improvisation or interpretation. This approach might work well for some pursuits, may even be preferred--indeed, I was often amazed by the way Koreans learned crafts and skills, everything from basketball to calligraphy, for example, by methodically studying and reproducing a defined set of steps (a BBC report explained how the North Korean leader Kim Jong Il had his minions rigorously study the pizza-making techniques used by Italian chefs so that he could get a good pie at home, even as thousands of his subjects starved)--but foreign-language learning, the actual speaking component most of all, has to be more spontaneous and less rigid. We all saw this played out before our eyes and quickly discerned the problem. A student cannot hope to sit in a class and have a language handed over to him on sheets of paper.

Alfred: Are you alright? Batman: I'm going to need a better car. Police are here. They'll pick up the others. Alfred: And they'll probably be back on the streets by sunrise thanks to Harvey Dent. I know you don't want to hear it, but if you want to make Gotham a safer place we need to rethink how we're going to do that. You should come home now. Dinner's gonna get cold. Batman: Don't tell me it's cottage pie again. Alfred:...I'll order a pizza.

En el siglo XVIII, al parecer, María Antonieta aconsejó a la muchedumbre que pasaba hambre que si se quedaban sin pan, comieran pasteles. Hoy en día, los pobres siguen este consejo al pie de la letra. Mientras que los ricos residentes de Beverly Hills comen ensalada y tofu al vapor con quinoa, en los suburbios y guetos los pobres se atracan de pastelillos Twinkie, Cheetos, hamburguesas y pizzas. En 2014, más de 2.100 millones de personas tenían sobrepeso, frente a los 850 millones que padecían desnutrición. Se espera que la mitad de la humanidad sea obesa en 2030.[4] En 2010, la suma de las hambrunas y la desnutrición mató a alrededor de un millón de personas, mientras que la obesidad mató a tres millones.[5]

actualmente, en la mayoría de los países, comer en exceso se ha convertido en un problema mucho peor que el hambre. En el siglo XVIII, al parecer, María Antonieta aconsejó a la muchedumbre que pasaba hambre que si se quedaban sin pan, comieran pasteles. Hoy en día, los pobres siguen este consejo al pie de la letra. Mientras que los ricos residentes de Beverly Hills comen ensalada y tofu al vapor con quinoa, en los suburbios y guetos los pobres se atracan de pastelillos Twinkie, Cheetos, hamburguesas y pizzas. En 2014, más de 2.100 millones de personas tenían sobrepeso, frente a los 850 millones que padecían desnutrición. Se espera que la mitad de la humanidad sea obesa en 2030.[4] En 2010, la suma de las hambrunas y la desnutrición mató a alrededor de un millón de personas, mientras que la obesidad mató a tres millones.

De hecho, actualmente, en la mayoría de los países, comer en exceso se ha convertido en un problema mucho peor que el hambre. En el siglo XVIII, al parecer, María Antonieta aconsejó a la muchedumbre que pasaba hambre que si se quedaban sin pan, comieran pasteles. Hoy en día, los pobres siguen este consejo al pie de la letra. Mientras que los ricos residentes de Beverly Hills comen ensalada y tofu al vapor con quinoa, en los suburbios y guetos los pobres se atracan de pastelillos Twinkie, Cheetos, hamburguesas y pizzas. En 2014, más de 2.100 millones de personas tenían sobrepeso, frente a los 850 millones que padecían desnutrición. Se espera que la mitad de la humanidad sea obesa en 2030.[4] En 2010, la suma de las hambrunas y la desnutrición mató a alrededor de un millón de personas, mientras que la obesidad mató a tres millones.

The Deliverator's car has enough potential energy packed into its batteries to fire a pound of bacon into the Asteroid Belt. Unlike a bimbo box or a Burb beater, the Deliverator's car unloads that power through gaping, gleaming, polished sphincters. When the Deliverator puts the hammer down, shit happens. You want to talk contact patches? Your car's tires have tiny contact patches, talk to the asphalt in four places the size of your tongue. The Deliverator's car has big sticky tires with contact patches the size of a fat lady's thighs. The Deliverator is in touch with the road, starts like a bad day, stops on a peseta. Why is the Deliverator so equipped? Because people rely on him. He is a role model. This is America. People do whatever the fuck they feel like doing, you got a problem with that? Because they have a right to. And because they have guns and no one can fucking stop them. As a result, this country has one of the worst economies in the world. When it gets down to it -- talking trade balances here -- once we've brain-drained all our technology into other countries, once things have evened out, they're making cars in Bolivia and microwave ovens in Tadzhikistan and selling them here -- once our edge in natural resources has been made irrelevant by giant Hong Kong ships and dirigibles that can ship North Dakota all the way to New Zealand for a nickel -- once the Invisible Hand has taken all those historical inequities and smeared them out into a broad global layer of what a Pakistani brickmaker would consider to be prosperity -- y'know what? There's only four things we do better than anyone else: * music * movies * microcode (software) * high-speed pizza delivery The Deliverator used to make software. Still does, sometimes. But if life were a mellow elementary school run by well-meaning education Ph.D.s, the Deliverator's report card would say: "Hiro is so bright and creative but needs to work harder on his cooperation skills." So now he has this other job. No brightness or creativity involved -- but no cooperation either. Just a single principle: The Deliverator stands tall, your pie in thirty minutes or you can have it free, shoot the driver, take his car, file a class-action suit. The Deliverator has been working this job for six months, a rich and lengthy tenure by his standards, and has never delivered a pizza in more than twenty-one minutes.

The school is teeming with activity. The rooms are small and large, many are special-purpose rooms, like shops and labs, but most are furnished like rather shabby living or dining rooms in homes: lots of sofas, easy chairs, and tables. Lots of people sitting around talking, reading, and playing games. On an average rainy day—quite different from a beautiful suddenly snowy day, or a warm spring or fall day—most people are inside. But there will also be more than a few who are outside in the rain, and later will come in dripping and trying the patience of the few people inside who think the school should perhaps be a “dry zone.” There may be people in the photo lab developing or printing pictures they have taken. There may be a karate class, or just some people playing on mats in the dance room. Someone may be building a bookshelf or fashioning chain mail armor and discussing medieval history. There are almost certainly a few people, either together or separate, making music of one kind or another, and others listening to music of one kind or another. You will find adults in groups that include kids, or maybe just talking with one student. It would be most unusual if there were not people playing a computer game somewhere, or chess; a few people doing some of the school’s administrative work in the office—while others hang around just enjoying the atmosphere of an office where interesting people are always making things happen; there will be people engaged in role-playing games; other people may be rehearsing a play—it might be original, it might be a classic. They may intend production or just momentary amusement. People will be trading stickers and trading lunches. There will probably be people selling things. If you are lucky, someone will be selling cookies they baked at home and brought in to earn money. Sometimes groups of kids have cooked something to sell to raise money for an activity—perhaps they need to buy a new kiln, or want to go on a trip. An intense conversation will probably be in progress in the smoking area, and others in other places. A group in the kitchen may be cooking—maybe pizza or apple pie. Always, either in the art room or in any one of many other places, people will be drawing. In the art room they might also be sewing, or painting, and some are quite likely to be working with clay, either on the wheel or by hand. Always there are groups talking, and always there are people quietly reading here and there. One

The full moon is like a pizza pie with the works...everything happens then good and bad.

Has no one ever said the word bodega to you?” she said. “I thought a bodega was kind of a bar and possible whorehouse,” I said, and that made her come over and hug me, she was laughing so hard. “Okay. What’s the cheese they put on pies? And by pie, I mean pizza.” “Pies are pizza?” “No. Pizzas are pies. Come on. What’s the cheese?

Making dinner for Wayne is either the easiest thing or the hardest thing on the planet, depending on how you look at it. After all, Wayne's famous Eleven are neither difficult to procure nor annoying to prepare. They are just. So. Boring. Roasted chicken Plain hamburgers Steak cooked medium Pork chops Eggs scrambled dry Potatoes, preferably fries, chips, baked, or mashed, and not with anything fancy mixed in Chili, preferably Hormel canned Green beans Carrots Corn Iceberg lettuce with ranch dressing That's it. The sum total of what Wayne will put into his maw. He doesn't even eat fricking PIZZA for chrissakes. Not including condiments, limited to ketchup and yellow mustard and Miracle Whip, and any and all forms of baked goods... when it comes to breads and pastries and desserts he has the palate of a gourmand, no loaf goes untouched, no sweet unexplored. It saves him, only slightly, from being a complete food wasteland. And he has no idea that it is strange to everyone that he will eat apple pie and apple cake and apple charlotte and apple brown Betty and apple dumplings and fritters and muffins and doughnuts and crisp and crumble and buckle, but will not eat AN APPLE.

So I march into this pizzeria, and smell hot cheese and basil and oregano and garlic and onions and maybe pepperoni in the air, and notice some youngsters and loud cowboys eating pizzas and drinking beer at wooden tables, and start studying all the scrumptious pies in the display case in front of the big oven. There's one with sausage and mushrooms and three cheeses, and one with bacon and charred peppers and black olives and shrimp, and another with tiny meatballs and broccoli and whole garlic cloves, and one called the Super Deluxe, with everything but the kitchen stove.

Perfect for Any Occasion Pies have a reputation. And it’s immediate—no talk of potential Regarding a pie. It’s good Or it isn’t, but mostly it is—sweet, very sweet Right then, right there, blue and red. It can’t go to junior college, Work hard for the grades, Work two jobs on the side. It can’t slowly build a reputation And a growing client base. A pie gets one chance And knows it, wearing as makeup Those sparkling granules of sugar, As a collar those diamond cutouts Bespeaking Fair Day, felicity, contentment. I tell you everything is great, says a pie, Great, and fun, and fine. And you smell nice, too, someone says. A full pound of round sound, all ahh, all good. Pies live a life of applause. 2. But then there are the other pies. The leftover pies. The ones Nobody chooses at Thanksgiving. Mincemeat? What the hell is that? people ask, Pointing instead at a double helping of Mr. “I-can-do-no-wrong” pecan pie. But the unchosen pies have a long history, too. They have plenty of good stories, places they’ve been— They were once fun, too— But nobody wants to listen to them anymore. Oh sure, everybody used to love lard, But things have changed, brother—things have changed. That’s never the end of the story, of course. Some pies make a break for it— Live underground for a while, Doing what they can, talking fast, Trying to be sweet pizzas, if they’re lucky. But no good comes of it. Nobody is fooled. A pie is a pie for one great day. Last week, It was Jell-O. Tomorrow, it’ll be cake.

You might expect such a grand hamper to be filled with smoked salmon, a cocktail of olives---ciabatta bread, perhaps. But no. Marcus knows that my taste in food runs to the far side of the Philistine. Instead, the hamper is packed with pork pies, hot pizza wrapped in foil, Walkers crisps, Pringles, my very favorite muffins from Chocolate Heaven and, in its own little cooler, a tub of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Ice Cream.

Don't be yourself. Be a pizza. Everyone loves pizza.

Pizza vs. Internet Porn I'm still debating whether pizza or internet porn is the best thing ever invented. I've already jack-off three times while eating a double-cheese pepperoni pie making my careful deliberations.

1 cup milk plus: 1. Small bowl cold cereal + blueberries + yogurt 2. 1 egg, scrambled or boiled + 1 slice toast + strawberries 3. 1 cut-up chicken sausage + toast + ½ banana 4. ½ bagel + cream cheese + raspberries 5. 1 slice ham on toast + ½ orange 6. ½ tortilla rolled up with cheese + melon + yogurt 7. Small bowl oatmeal + cut-up bananas and strawberries Lunch and Dinner 1. 1 salmon cake + carrots + rice 2. Fish pie + broccoli 3. 3 oz salmon + cup of pasta + peas 4. 2 fish sticks + cup couscous + veg 5. ½ breast of chicken + veg + small potato 6. Roast chicken + dumplings + veg 7. 1 meat or peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich + apple + yogurt 8. 1 small homemade pizza + fruit 9. Pasta with tomato sauce and cheese + veg 10. Chicken risotto + veg 11. Ground beef + potato + peas 12. Small tuna pasta bake + veg 13. 4 meatballs + pasta + veg 14. Chicken stir-fry with veg + rice

I’m not saying I don’t care about good-tasting pizza, but often the largest discernible difference between a Domino’s and the local pizzeria is that the latter one offers pizza sold by the slice. I never understood the big appeal of buying pizza by the slice. “Can you reheat a slice from that pizza that has been sitting out for a couple of hours?” It feels like you are eating someone else’s pizza. My major issue with the pizza delivery chains is their interpretation of sizes. Based on Domino’s “large” pizza, a small pizza would be roughly the size of a dog bowl. Because you are not actually in the restaurant, you can’t complain about the size. You’re not going to have the delivery guy send it back to the kitchen. Of course, I prefer pizza from Lombardi’s to Domino’s, but in the end all pizza is great. Everyone loves pizza. When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s an indication you have an unhealthy obsession with pizza. I know I do.

This is really good,” I murmur around my cake. Pete smacks Sam on the shoulder. “See, told you she would love it,” he says. Sam blushes and says, “It’s just a cake.” I point to the cake. “You did not make this.” More pink creeps up Sam’s neck. “Sometimes I bake.” He puts his hands on his hips and balks at me. “Real men bake cakes. And pies. And cookies. And other shit.” He waves a hand through the air as he scolds me. I had no idea Sam could bake. It’s really some of the best cake I have ever eaten. “Real men with really small dicks,” Pete says, holding his fingers about an inch apart. Sam punches his shoulder. “Ask your girlfriend about my dick,” Sam tosses back. “She seemed to like it a lot last night.” “Knock it off,” Paul scolds as he takes Hayley off the counter and sets her on the floor. “There are girls in the house.” “They don’t count as girls,” Sam says around a mouthful of pizza. “Well, thanks,” I complain. “You know what I mean.” Sam is still talking with his mouth full. Logan wraps his arms around my waist and places his chin on my shoulder. “Feels like a girl to me,” he says. He growls and nibbles on the side of my neck.

As it was Monday, he was having sausage and mash. Tuesday was egg and chips, Wednesday and Thursday were cottage pie (he always made enough for two portions), and Friday was takeaway. Usually this was fish and chips, but sometimes he treated himself to pizza, and once he'd even had a curry - a chicken tikka, which he'd actually quite enjoyed.

Craig leapt spryly out of the way. He was in a good mood. He’d just received an e-mail from Angel Resources informing him that he’d clinched another Angel of the Month award. The prize was pretty good this time: a coupon for a medium pizza of his choice. There was some fine print on the back of the coupon: deep-dish pies cost extra, he couldn’t order more than three meat toppings, and the offer expired in fifteen days.

Oh, no.” Kate waved her hand. “The only reason I know it’s 314 miles is because Pi Day is on March 14th. Everyone who works in the tech sector celebrates Pi Day by ordering out pizza and pie.

When the Moon hits your eye / Like a big pizza pie…. THAT’S NO MOON, IT’S A SPACE STATION.

Shannon narrowed her eyes. “You horned in on my baby-sitting territory. My sister and I used to be the only sitters around here.” She opened the box and began to ease a gooey slice away from the rest of the pie. “How’d you like pizza in your face?” “No! Don’t throw it!” shrieked Amanda. “Mommy and Daddy just had the hall painted. And the fish fountain cost two thousand dollars!” Shannon hesitated long enough for me to say, “You throw that at me and I’ll throw it back at Astrid. You’ll have a pepperoni mountain dog.” Shannon dropped the slice back into the box. She pressed her lips together. Was she crying? No, a giggle escaped. Then Tiffany stifled a laugh. Then Amanda and Max and I let out giggles of relief. “A pepperoni mountain dog!” exclaimed Shannon. We all laughed more loudly.

The entire company, he said, would restructure itself around what he called “two-pizza teams.” Employees would be organized into autonomous groups of fewer than ten people—small enough that, when working late, the team members could be fed with two pizza pies. These teams would be independently set loose on Amazon’s biggest problems. They would likely compete with one another for resources and sometimes duplicate their efforts, replicating the Darwinian realities of surviving in nature. Freed from the constraints of intracompany communication, Bezos hoped, these loosely coupled teams could move faster and get features to customers quicker. There were some head-scratching aspects to Bezos’s two-pizza-team concept. Each group was required to propose its own “fitness function”—a linear equation that it could use to measure its own impact without ambiguity. For example, a two-pizza team in charge of sending advertising e-mails to customers might choose for its fitness function the rate at which these messages were opened multiplied by the average order size those e-mails generated. A group writing software code for the fulfillment centers might home in on decreasing the cost of shipping each type of product and reducing the time that elapsed between a customer’s making a purchase and the item leaving the FC in a truck. Bezos wanted to personally approve each equation and track the results over time. It would be his way of guiding a team’s evolution.

In geometry, whenever we had to find the area of a circle, pi * radius squared, I would get really hungry for pie. Square pie.

The few times when Big Ma was sick, Uncle Darnell brought in a pizza pie. Big Ma never liked that and always got well the next day so we wouldn’t get used to take-out food.

It is rarely the food that truly makes a meal, but the people we share it with. A family spaghetti recipe passed down from your grandma. The smell of dumplings clinging to a sweater you haven't washed in years. A cardboard pizza across a yellow table. A friend, lost in a memory, but alive in the taste of a half-burnt brownie. Love in a lemon pie.

(yes, pineapple absolutely does belong on a pizza, I shall die on this hill, and this particular pie is doing the goddess’ work in redeeming the town of Pumpkinville as a quality establishment in my eyes).

My girl’s a corker, she’s a New Yorker, I buy her everything to keep her in style, She got a pair of hips Just like two battleships, Oh boy, that’s how my money goes. My girl’s a dilly, she comes from Philly, I buy her everything to keep her in style, She’s got a pair of eyes Just like two pizza pies, Oh boy, that’s how—

Teams also need to be contained—a dozen people at the very most (some social science research suggests five or six as the ideal). Amazon has the two-pizza rule—no team so big it cannot dine on two pies. Google typically has three-person teams that work for three to four months on a project. A permanent team of many people is just another way of saying bureaucracy.

Tengo la sensación de percibir aún el olor de aquella pizza, puede que sea mi magdalena de Proust. A decir verdad, salir a comer una pizza es una de las pequeñas cosas que más echo de menos. Siempre me ha gustado caminar. Cuando era cardenal me encantaba recorrer las calles a pie y coger el metro. A algunos les extrañaba e insistían en acompañarme, o en que fuera en coche, pero a veces la realidad es muy sencilla: me gusta caminar. La calle me cuenta muchas cosas, en la calle aprendo. Y me gusta la ciudad, por encima y por debajo: las calles, las plazas, las tabernas, la pizza que se consume en las mesitas al aire libre y que sabe muy diferente de la que entregan a domicilio… Dentro de mi alma me considero un hombre de ciudad.

The architecture of the pizza pie illustrates how this can be done. Many aspects of the design of a pizza, such as the dough and the sauce, have been made standard. User choice has been restricted to a single task: the