Maurice adjusted his apron, which now bore a badge reading Certified Snack of Truth, and wheeled in a second cart—this one less ominous, more sparkly, and piping with steam from fresh internal insights.
"You've nibbled on accountability," intoned Madam Loopina, "but will you now feast on intentionality?"
A hush fell over the Conclave. Jazz brunch energy intensified. A lone saxophone riffed from nowhere in particular, as if the soundtrack itself was side-eyeing Gregory's progress.
On the new cart were glistening cloches. One lifted itself, revealing a towering stack of Layered Lasagna of Lived Experience. Each pasta sheet was a journal entry; each cheesy fold, a tender misstep glazed with reflection.
Gregory reached for it cautiously. The lasagna hissed affirmatively, as if to say, It's okay, you're allowed to learn slowly.
