“Pizza,” he said.
She blinked, then laughed. It was one of their games; taking turns to think of things they missed from the other time, the time before — or after, depending on how you looked at it.
“Coke,” she said promptly. “I think I could maybe do pizza — but what good is pizza without Coca-Cola?”
“Pizza with beer is perfectly fine,” he assured her. “And we can have beer — not that Lizzie’s homemade hell-brew is quite on par with MacEwan’s Lager, yet. But you really think you could make pizza?”
“Don’t see why not.” She nibbled at the cheese, frowning. “this wouldn’t do” — she brandished the yellowish remnant, then popped it in her mouth — “too strong-flavoured. But I think…” she paused to chew and swallow, then washed it down with a long drink of rough cider.
“Come to think of it, this would go pretty well with pizza.” She lowered the leather bottle and licked the last sweet, semi-alcoholic drops from her lips. “But the cheese — I think maybe sheep’s cheese would do. Da brought some from Salem last time he went there. I’ll ask him to get some more and see how it melts.”
She squinted against the bright, pale sun, calculating.
“Mama’s got plenty of dried tomatoes, and tons of garlic. I know she has basil don’t know about the oregano, but I could do without that. And crust — “ She waved a dismissive hand. “Flour, water, and lard, nothing to it.”
Diana Gabaldon, The Fiery Cross (Chapter 20)