I have a confession to make…

All my life, or for as long as I can remember, I have detested pineapple on pizza. I’ll pretend that it’s an affront to my Italian heritage but that wasn’t really why. Warm fruit freaks me out. Except in the case of apple pie.

But in April of this year I went to a friend’s birthday party and I accidentally ate a piece of pizza with pineapple on it and… oh gosh, I enjoyed the sweetness of it.

I didn’t have the heart to confess this deep dark secret to Husband. It took me six months to tell him. I felt like a fraud. When I felt brave enough I told him I had something serious to confess to him. I swallowed hard, bit the bullet, and said the words — I ate pineapple on pizza and I liked it.

I have been a strong opponent of what I considered a travesty for so long that I was so terribly ashamed of myself. How could I do this to the pre-April Jaye? Who even am I?

Husband promised to never tell anyone my most shameful secret. He held my hand as I fake-sobbed in devastation. And he didn’t say anything when I decided to order a barbecue bacon pizza with pineapple added. I ate the pizza and while I didn’t love it I didn’t hate it either.

So… am I a fraud? Have I brought shame on all Italians everywhere? Can I ever show my face in public again? Or can we pretend this never happened?