“I think it's kinda nice.' And I did. my mom isn't famous for her pies. No, she's famous for defusing a nuclear device in Brussels with only a pair of cuticle scissors and a ponytail holder. Somehow, at the moment, pies seemed cooler.”

“KM: Yes. Mrs. Lopez, she's human. And you know, clearly, she'd like people to show some appreciation for her hard work. But if people just, you know, take her pie and don't even say, "Hey, nice pie," they just scarf it down or whatever-MH: I could see how that would get to be annoying. I mean, if you're constantly providing...pie. And getting no positive feedback-KM: Right! And what about your future? I mean, how do you know people are still going to want your pie in the future? Supposing they become a famous rock star or something. People are going to be offering them pie all over the place. If they haven't promised only to eat your pie, well, where does that leave you?”

“My mother used to hope that I would rise up from my humble roots. Become someone sucessful, or even famous. I'm famous all right, but I don't think it's what she had in mind.”

“Was the pie good, luv?" she asked. I'd forgotten the pie until that moment. I took a leaf from Dr. Darby's notebook. "Um," I said.”

“It isn't necessary to be rich and famous to be happy. It's only necessary to be rich.”

“I’m famous for my Shepherd’s Pie. Here’s my recipe: lamb, potatoes, cheese, peas, paprika, and a wool-covered apron for the chef/shepherd/wolf-like politician to wear while serving the sheeple up.
”