The tart was sweet and buttery, loaded with finely-chopped vegetables. Dale wanted to get a closer look at them, but the watchful eyes of the cook prevented him—he was sure she’d be insulted if he started to disassemble his tart and inspect the ingredients. He chuckled to himself—here he was trying to act like one of the judges on some cooking show, when he really should have been grateful that they were actually putting forth the effort to make food that he might like, rather than giving him bland energy bars or rehydrated spacefood or something like that. This was certainly better food than he could have made on his own.