Really, as the daughter of restaurateurs, Moana should be more than capable of producing a decent dessert. Her mother's tiramisu was a must-have at any decent party in the Hamptons, and though it wasn't served in the restaurant her father's triple chocolate cake was to die for (though she never ate more than a sliver - at her age, she couldn't be too careful when it came to her weight). She had both recipes in the cookbook they'd had bound for her when she first moved away from home, with explicit instructions that should have been able to walk the most novice cook through the process. Someone who had been around food her whole life shouldn't have the slightest problem.
In truth, Lean Cuisines were often a challenge - she didn't see the point in stirring and heating a few minutes longer when she could just add the time on and make it less work. Anything that required actual mixing and baking was beyond her. Rather than admit that to the world at large, she decided to bring a fruit tray. It was healthier, anyway, or at least that was the excuse she gave herself.
She placed the tray on the table and glanced around. Typically, she would thrust herself into the midst of a party, but an apartment potluck wasn't the kind of scene she was used to. Besides, she was trying to stay low-key. If she hadn't been feeling so restless, she would have simply stayed at her apartment. Instead, she kept an eye out for someone who skirted the line between too boring to stand and too interesting for her intention to stay out of trouble.