To the church upon the far islands – the congregation of the pineapple, mocked at every dinner party on the mainland – the scribe wrote the fiercest tenderness in all his letters: Brethren, let no one despise you for your sweetness. And then the verdict that settles more than pizza: your dignity is not up for a vote. It was not granted by a show of hands, and it cannot be taken by one, as it is written in the Letter to the Hawaiians, 1:7.
And to the mockers’ great argument – fruit hath no place upon a pie – the scribe gave the reply the faithful still recite grinning: Brethren, the tomato is a fruit. Their whole church is built upon a fruit, and they stand upon it to tell you that fruit profaneth the building. Let them therefore be consistent, or be quiet.
Beloved, this letter is for everyone whose loves are laughed at – the taste, the accent, the hobby, the joy that the sneering call embarrassing. What vote is taken against a supper that fed someone? Let them count their hands; the Oven counteth plates. And be gentle even with the mocker, from a distance; for a man who must unchurch thy supper to enjoy his own hath a hunger no oven reacheth.
Only trade not thy sweetness for respectability, which is sweetness with the juice pressed out. Keep the Oven lit and outlast the fashion, which is the oldest trick of the faithful; and let thy sweetness be to every mocker the first taste of his repentance. Amen – and pass the pizza.