The Leftover Nazi
Isabel recently told me that she doesn’t eat leftovers. She doesn’t know why; she just can’t bring herself to eat them. Now, I know everyone has their own set of beliefs and everything, but there is something about the idea of not eating leftovers that I’m having a very hard time coming to terms with.
You see, I live for leftovers. I will intentionally stop eating halfway through my dinner so that I can have the second half for lunch the next day. I look forward to leftovers. I dream about them, plan when and how I’m going to eat them, whether I’m going to do anything crazy like cover them in pepperjack cheese when I heat them up, plan if they’ll be best heated up in the microwave, toaster oven, or on the Foreman. Leftovers, to me, are the stuff dreams are made of.
In high school and college, I used to be a bit of a leftover nazi. I’ve calmed down a bit since then, but I still feel that it is very important that leftovers be divided evenly and fairly. (If there are 4 burritos’ worth of chicken left in the crock pot, for example, I would very much prefer that Tim and I each get to eat 2 more chicken burritos.) Even though I’m not as bad as I used to be, sometimes my inner leftover nazi does rear her ugly head to lecture Tim about the importance of not eating something that I’m really looking forward to. This is rare, though, and is nothing compared to what it used to be.
It used to be that my parents and I would go out to El Burrito, the best Mexican restaurant in Ft. Collins, for dinner, and I would bring half of my burrito home in a cute, burrito-sized styrofoam box. The next day, I’d daydream through my classes about how good that leftover burrito half was going to taste as an after-school snack. I’d imagine the gooey cheese, melted into extra ooey-gooey goodness in the microwave, the extra green chile I’d scrape out of the bottom of the box, savoring every last bite, and that last bite — oooh, the last bite. I always saved the best bite for last. All day, my excitement would build up for 3:00 and the after-school burrito. And then 3:00 would come, I’d get home, open the fridge . . . and discover that my dad had decided to have a breakfast burrito that morning. Yes, that burrito. My burrito. The one I had been looking forward to all day. The one I now would never get to enjoy. For a high school student who was perhaps a bit too attached to her leftovers, this was truly devastating.
Whenever this happened, the next time we went to El Burrito I would write “Audrey’s Burrito! Not for Dad!” all over the styrofoam box. I was such a sweet daughter.
Oh, but it gets even better. In college, before moving into a house with Lauren and some other roommates, I actually lectured my future housemates on how important it was that they not eat my leftovers. That’s right, my future housemates. I had this little chat with them before we even moved in together. Before they’d had a chance to so much as think about eating something in a styrofoam box that did not belong to them. Let me just say this one more time so it’s clear to you how bad my leftover obsession was: I preemptively told my college roommates not to go near my leftovers. Oh, y’all. It was ugly.
I eventually learned to lighten up, thank goodness. I no longer feel more than a small twinge of disappointment if I open the fridge in search of leftovers and find they’ve already been eaten. I no longer consider turning the car around when I realize an hour into the two-hour drive from my parents’ house to my own that I forgot to grab my leftover burrito before hitting the road. (It should be known that I never actually turned around and went back for the burrito.) I often–very generously I might add–invite Tim to help himself to more than half of the leftovers from some dinners. (Granted, I usually only extend this invitation when I didn’t like the dinner all that much to begin with, but even the smallest improvement is better than none at all.) I don’t remember the last time I wrote my name on a styrofoam box before hiding it in the back corner of the fridge.
My inner leftover nazi is fading more and more every day. And that, my friends, is something to celebrate. In fact, maybe we could celebrate over a pitcher of margaritas at El Burrito. What do you say? You, me, some chips and salsa, delicious burritos, and a sopapilla to share for dessert? I promise it’ll be a great time . . . as long as you don’t go anywhere near my leftover burrito the next day.
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Mmmmmm… leftovers. I’m certainly a fan, especially if it’s of something yummy I made. Fortunately, the rest of my family is blasse toward leftovers, so I didn’t really have to fight for them while growing up. Except with my dad, he’ll eat anything.
My older brother, you know, Paul’s son, ate anything and everything in the house, so i didn’t really know about leftovers until he moved out and as a result, even now, i don’t really do the whole leftover thing.
Like Isabel, Audra has always claimed to have a problem with leftovers. She doesn’t seem to have one anymore, though—ever since she realized that by scheduling one LEFTOVER EXTRAVAGANZA NIGHT!!! every week was helping us save money for the wedding, she hasn’t complained once about reheated soup.
I definitely agree with you, though: I love leftover burritos!
Wow…my comment has so many typos it’s almost incomprehensible! Sorry about that…
I love leftovers! Yum.
Eating left over spagetti and sauce would make a left over eater outta anyone.
Something about tomatoes marinating overnight.
I also live for leftovers. We cook and I order food at restaurants specifically so that there are leftovers for my lunches at work. I am scarily skilled at finding the exact right plastic container that will fit the servings. Leftovers and I just go together. Mm.
I am firmly in the pro-leftover camp! YUM!!
Lol, I literally laughed out loud reading this because right now, as I am typing, I have two slices of pizza in the fridge with my name on them. Literally. There’s a sticky note pasted to the cling-wrap. They are for my breakfast, and I shall wish food poisoning upon anyone who eats ‘em. Other than me of course.
He he…EVERYTHING tastes better the next day. Except salads, stinkin’ salads!
Some foods just taste BETTER if they are leftovers.
Like pizza. And Chinese takeaway. And anything Mexican.
YUM.
My dad (and brother) were always complete jerks about food. I used to hide my leftovers in the backyard fridge, buried under cans of soft drink, just so they wouldn’t eat my blessed pizza slice!
I think I need help.
I’m half and half with the leftovers thing. I have my “will not eats” and my “love to eats.” Depends on the food, of course.
But more importantly, I must discuss your use of the word “y’all.” I know from your post from long ago that you just can’t help typing it. Your fingers get the itch, and as much as you try to fight it, you have to give in sometimes (as done in this post). I have the same itch with “y’all” and “dude.” Yesterday, Joyful Mama told me that she doesn’t understand why people actually type y’all. She thinks that it is more convenient to type “you all” since you don’t have to hit the shift key. I disagree because with “you all” there’s an extra letter and a space. I told her that it’s ok to type y’all, and that we do it on the internet all the time. Now I see that J.M. has read and commented on this post. She has been exposed to her first internet “y’all,” and she may now conform.
(whoa! I’m long winded today)
I didn’t used to like leftovers. Then I got a microwave that actually works. Now I like leftovers. Except reheated shrimp. That’s just gross. The end.
One time my dad ate my leftovers and I was sooooooooooooo mad! I don’t take leftovers home from restaurants too often, but when I do, I know exactly what you mean. For instance, if I bring a left over burrito to work, I will be thinking about the damn thing ALL morning and watching the clock, waiting until it strikes 12. I know EXACTLY what you mean. I’m usually not as excited about leftovers that I’ve cooked though. I mean, it depends on what it is I guess. I love leftover chili and pad thai and a few others, but if it’s left over steak and veggies I’ll pass. It’s weird, Edgar likes left overs from restaurants, but he refuses to eat leftovers from what we’ve cooked. Sometimes he’ll eat leftover rice, but that’s about it. I really think it has to do with someone else cooking the food that makes it taste better. Anyway, please tell me about this chicken in the crock pot burrito recipe please. Do you use a whole chicken? Just chicken breasts? What else do you put in there? I must know. Immediately.
I am so bad about leftovers. I’ll eat half my food and then forget about them in the fridge. Sometimes Chris eats them, if they don’t have foods on them he won’t eat. This is why I have a dedicated mental note to ‘clean out the fridge’ once a week.
Oh my, I love leftovers…but only with certain foods.
Whew, here I thought I loved leftovers!
i remember i once called in sick from work because my roommate ate my leftovers and i was too pissed off.
I have the same issue with AS–and we don’t live together! We will buy something or make something and I will hope that there is still a taste left for me next time I go to his place… but he will have gobbled it all up! It drives me crazy!
I don’t understand people (besides like spouses) who would eat other people’s leftovers. I had a boyfriend whose roomie would eat his, and it would drive him mad!
i heart leftovers, too…just reading about leftovers makes me wanna raid the fridge.
You are a left-over nazi.
Although, like you, I hate when someone eats my left-overs from a restaurant. Especially if it’s pizza.
[...] I don’t hold this against the recipe, as stove heats vary, and we also doubled the recipe (we like leftovers) and probably should have taken into account that it takes longer to heat up twice as much sauce. [...]