Ravioli, you delicious little tease, you.

I want to slip between those tender, wheaty sheets, to discover what lies within. Roasted vegetables? Creamy cheese? Velvety squash? Whatever it is, I’ll take it. I’ll take it all.

Bathed in sauce, sprinkled with herbs, kissed with a spicy olive oil, your pouty little pockets will not be overshadowed. Your presentation is always so inviting—you know that I know just how good you’re going to be.

Even watching you simmer, fighting to get to the top, vying for attention. Silly raviolis, you’re all the prettiest. You can tart up your pasta with spinach or beet juices, but even the plain Janes are radiant, rolling in the salty bath.

You’re not like the other pastas, to be thrown in a colander—no, you get the slotted spoon treatment, gently cradled and delivered to your bed of greens.

And when I finally lay into you with my fork, you pretend to push back for an instant before falling away and offering everything you are to me, all your flavors and textures coming together to create an experience so much greater than the sum of your parts. I can’t help but pause for a quiet smile before going in for another bite.

What’s that? A chocolate filling for dessert? Oh, ho ho, my sweet ravioli, lumaconi giganti’s got nothin’ on you.

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