In contrast to those who had found themselves staring down the gun barrel of new opportunity, one pilot found a much lower stakes gamble.  Ingrid's morning jog around the interior of the base had left her stomach complaining, and this time without much relief in immediate sight: some equipment failure left a large line at the mess "tent", where she would normally get breakfast...and that left her searching through the spoils of war.  She rifled through the assembled mass of material by the emptied shipping containers, trying to ignore the feeling in the back of her head that she probably didn't look much different than a squatter ruffling through garbage.  On the food end. there were ration packages and vacuum-packed bars with just enough nutrients to subside on, but this time she was not going to settle for that.  This was a planetside garrison they had raided; even with the relative squalor of Espia there had to be something better, yes?

It then hit her, almost literally.  Her head brushed past one of the stacked white boxy things that were up by the food, and this disturbance finally got her to read what these pails contained: a fiesta in a box.  Enough servings for everyone in the company to eat for a day.  Foreign names that she could only vaguely place to a culture, formed from distant memories of visiting dignitaries from Buena.  She was 12, but the household had given them a welcoming...fiesta, didn't they?  Why did she remember them being vaguely offended...

Had Ingrid been a gourmand in her prior life?  No.  In fact, quite the opposite.  She was the one who had never complained no matter what was put in front of her.  The Duke and Duchess of House Daschke attributed this to her good upbringing, and she would attribute this to some lofty idea of a soldier never crying over food, but the secret reality was that she was simply a human garbage disposal.  She had her tastes and preferences, yes, but she would eat basically anything put in front of her without a second thought.  Her sister dined like a king on the exotic shellfish of her homeworld, her brother ate in gilded halls with his fellow officers in the LCAF, and Ingrid usually received a strange look whenever she beelined for the nearest fast food joint when out on training rather than dine with silvered forks and spoons.  She was one of the few members of the Daschke house had ever tasted the famous Poulsbo Rat-Salmon Burger.

But was this complete lack of culinary taste enough to conquer the divide between woman and Fiesta?

Having pulled out a knife and opened the pail for plunder, she began to decode the included instructions.  It appeared to have been written with the assumption that you actually know what a burrito is, and had more information to go off of than the picture on the front.  At least all of the freeze-dried ingredients were separately marked, beyond whatever a 'fajeeta' is.  It sounded reasonable enough...Ingrid's resolve pushed through her doubts.

With a gallon of drinking water and a few tin cans and MRE bowls used to portion out the food, she let the boxy hot plate begin heating up the refried beans (she did not understand why you would need to re-fry them, but hopefully they could be eaten without such preparation).  No one was there to eat up the concerningly large portions the pail provided, but oh well.  Surely there will be room for leftovers.