Leftovers Never Die - They Just Change Color and Crawl Away

Tuesday was leftover night, which usually means a collective groan from the family. Somehow, though, last night was different. I pulled out Spaghetti Western, grilled burger patties, vegetable pot pie, and pasta fagouli, arranging them artfully across the sparkling black counter top, enticing each of us to choose a favorite for dinner. Well, not really. In reality, I pulled out the leftovers, put them on the island and said, "What do you want?"

My I'll-eat-anything-in-a-restaurant son, who usually sniffs disdainfully at leftovers cordially opted for Spaghetti Western, as did I. Thanks to our handy-dandy microwave, we were happily feasting in three minutes flat, which brings me to the crux of the problem with leftovers - the microwave. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't trade my under-the-cabinet model for any other appliance in the kitchen. I use it daily to make breakfast - pulling out oatmeal, sausage patties, and eggs in mere moments. It is my friend at snack time when I'm hankering for nachos or popcorn. It helps prep chocolate for dipping, appetizers for party nights, and a host of frozen foods when we're in a hurry. One thing it does not do, though, is make leftovers better.

In the pre-microwave era, leftovers required imagination, skill, prowess. Cooks were forced to consider what they could turn those leftovers into rather than tossing them into the magic box for miraculous reheating. Monday's leftover rice became Tuesday's rice pudding. Wednesday's spaghetti sauce became Thursday's sloppy joes. Friday's vegetables with cheese topped Saturday's pizza crust. Ah yes, leftovers were once things to be reckoned with - even Frankenstein's monster was made from leftovers. Now, they are simply the remnants of yesteray's dinner stuffed into a plastic container for today's lunch. How boring it is to eat that same meal over and over again. No wonder my son isn't fond of leftovers. Still, they seem to be a necessity. I can't bring myself to throw away perfectly good food, even if I am tired of eating it for lunch every day. Wasting leftovers is just not in my nature, especially after I cooked the meal to begin with.

Perhaps learning to eat leftovers is something that has to be ingrained in our youthful psyches. For example, when we were first married, my husband threw away the remnants of a delicious dinner, and I nearly panicked. I'd never met anyone who didn't eat leftovers, so I was shocked - dismayed, even, at the idea that he did not plan to finish what I had cooked. When he was growing up, leftovers sat in the fridge until they changed color, grew hair, and were eventually fed to the garbage disposal with one hand while holding your nose with the other. So, he reasoned, he should simply skip the middle steps and toss them at the git-go. I, on the other hand, had grown up with a frugal mom who knew that tonight's meatloaf could become something else tomorrow and no one would be the wiser - at least not until we were old enough to no longer care.

Now, I regard leftovers with a mixture of relief and dread. I'm always relieved that there is something to toss in my lunchbox, but I dread eating the same thing several days in a row. It's the catch-22 of culinary life.