Jeanmarie looked at the sad little pile of ravioli on her plate.
It wasn’t flavourful; one bite had determined that. She had no sauce to spruce it up, and the inside was filled with a bland potato concoction she had hoped she had spiced enough, but having not sampled it, now knew she hadn’t.
Jeanmarie’s ravioli was bland, beige, and uninspired. She knew for next time. But at the least, she had made this herself, and that lent it a certain power. She dove her fork in for another bite, determined to finish it.