When I was growing up in western Minnesota, ravioli came out of a can and was made by Chef Boyardee. That was as close as I was ever going to get to haute cuisine until I was in my early thirties and finally ate ravioli made by an actual chef.
Rather than being plopped into a bowl and thrown in a microwave Boyardee style, this pasta broke open between my teeth and quail egg filled my mouth with its warm, silky ooziness, blanking out everything else.. I closed my eyes. I moaned, out loud, and I licked my lips.
Canned ravioli does not elicit that kind of response.
The feeling lingered, warmth spreading into my hands, my feet. I felt flush. I wanted to enjoy it for a little longer by myself. That one bite of food made me so aware of my body my entire interior voice turned off. It was pure sensation. That had never happened before.
Hold on, that sounds like something more than good pasta.