By Michael Kelman Portney

Let me start by saying this: pineapple belongs on pizza. Don’t argue. Don’t pretend this is a debate. Pineapple on pizza is a triumphant middle finger to the culinary purists of the world—a declaration that sweetness and acidity have every right to tango with cheese and tomato sauce like drunken lovers at 2 a.m. in some dive bar of flavor. Pineapple works, damn it. It’s a party on a crust.

But honey? Honey on pizza? Are you serious, Portland? What kind of bougie-ass, beard-oiled hipster dystopia are we living in where every pizzeria feels compelled to drizzle bee spit over a perfectly good pie?

Look, I get it. Portland is where creativity goes to fester. We can’t just have coffee; we have to have single-origin, oat-milk macchiatos that cost more than my first car. We can’t just have hot dogs; they have to be artisanal bratwursts garnished with foraged dandelion petals. And apparently, we can’t just have pizza; it has to come slathered with the sticky essence of the world’s most over-glorified condiment.

Let’s break it down. Pizza is sacred. It’s cheese, sauce, and bread—the holy trinity of junk food perfection. It doesn’t need honey, okay? The sweetness of pineapple complements the acidity of the sauce and the saltiness of the cheese, creating a culinary triad so balanced it could be a damn yoga instructor. Honey, on the other hand, just sits there like an uninvited guest at the party. It’s a sticky, cloying blob of why are you here?

And don’t give me that “it’s fancy” crap. It’s not fancy. It’s lazy. It’s the edible equivalent of slapping a mustache tattoo on your finger and calling yourself quirky. Honey on pizza is what happens when chefs run out of ideas but still want to charge $28 for a 10-inch pie.

Every pizza place in Portland has its token honey pie, and it’s always called something insufferable like “The Sweet Heat” or “Bee’s Knees” or “Pollinator’s Paradise.” And of course, it has to be paired with goat cheese or some trendy meat nobody asked for, like duck confit or bison jerky. You know what I call it? A crime against humanity.

Oh, and the texture. Let’s talk about that. Honey turns your pizza into a sticky, drippy mess. One bite and suddenly your hands are glued together like a kindergarten arts-and-crafts project gone wrong. And heaven forbid you try to reheat a honey-drizzled pizza. The honey caramelizes into a molten layer of lava that fuses your teeth together in a way that dentists probably love, but the rest of us don’t.

Portland, listen to me: not every food trend needs to be a thing. You’re the city that put kombucha on tap, so I get that moderation isn’t really your vibe, but this honey-on-pizza nonsense needs to stop. Pineapple works because it’s bold, audacious, and a little bit wrong in the best possible way. Honey doesn’t work because it’s trying too hard to be right.

So the next time you’re at some trendy pizza joint and you see honey on the menu, do yourself a favor. Order the pineapple pizza. Love yourself. And leave the honey for the bears.

You’re welcome.

Michael Kelman Portney will keep it sweet but never sticky at www.misinformationsucks.com