Leftover Blues
by Marina Chotzinoff
First printed in Kitchen Sink Magazine - fall 2002
Leftovers. You love them or hate them. You either plan ahead for them, or end up making your dog real happy. I have a split-leftover personality, at times grudgingly chewing through a miserable shapeless wad, other times fighting the fella for the coveted foil package. Somehow both scenarios rattle me and I haven’t quite found my “day old” peace.
My mother is most likely responsible for my belief that leftovers have a place in this world. I grew up having to save all shapes and sizes of containers and baggies in which to wrap the remainders of our meal. I was often sent to the basement freezer to sort through containers marked “stock and bones”, “fowl”, or “veggies and herbs” to bring past items up to the kitchen for their reincarnation. Many tantrums were thrown when I realized that the bearded, frozen blocks were intended for my dinner, though I could also look forward to an after school snack made from anything wrapped in foil.
It is with this history ingrained that I ventured into my adult food life, often times considering the remnants of my meal more than the meal itself.
The men in my life, for the most part, don’t seem to like leftovers. A blanket statement like this could be digestible if left to items like fried fish or anything else too embarrassing to microwave in public. But it seems that the very idea of encountering some dishes twice in a row is more than they can face. Especially when it involves vegetables.
Thus I’ve spent many nights pleading with my fella to save each bit no matter how worthy. Whether it’s my bursts of eco-consciousness or a momentary need to save money, I stand there arguing that the pile of graying greens will make a great lunch while he shrugs and walks away informing me that they are “all mine.” What a bitter victory. The next day, of course, I don’t want the greens. I realize I really never would want these greens and goddammit why didn’t I throw them away like a normal, wasteful person? I could be eating something new. Something good. Something with a texture beyond slimy. Instead, I swallow the slime, but not my pride and watch as the fella hums happily through each bite of a crispy, melty, gooey meatball sandwich. Somehow, this time, I manage to turn down a bite knowing it might bring me to tears.
But there are certain leftovers we both look forward to: barbeque chicken destined for salad, roasted pork tenderloin crying to be a sandwich adorned with arugula and a fancy mayo, a pile of noodles that have absorbed all their soup. These are meals we talk about even while still full of their original incarnations. The vocal leftover supporter, I am often the winner of these second day meals which I happily carry to work for lunch. And to lose these meals, to find I left them on the counter or at the bus stop or (worse yet) to discover the fella has beaten me to it… This is pure sorrow.
I once longed for leftover enchiladas to such an extreme it made my fiance worry. I had been helping my mother all morning and before I knew it, it was 3:00. All day I had imagined the pork enchiladas smothered in green chile and melty cheese with a side of chipotle sour cream and green onions. I was so hungry I called my fella to ask him to heat the oven so they’d be ready when I got home. It was then he broke it to me. He and his “pal” had already finished them off. I was so mad I almost drove off the road. “Don’t mess with me.” I choked through clenched teeth. “You better be joking. In fact, you better just stop kidding me and heat up my enchiladas.” I was about to start listing off anything that could possibly replace my meal and repair his standing when he was spooked into fessing up. The enchiladas were intact and would be ready when I got there. And I better calm down, he said. Or else I’d never make it home to enjoy them.
It was during my drive home that I remembered my mother’s advice on saving favorites. My dad used to make piles of cutletkes, a classic family version of the chicken cutlet that is great hot out of the pan and even better the next day: reheated, on a sandwich, even cold with fresh pepper. There were always leftover cutletkes, but you had to be fast to get lucky. After many disappointments my mother began saving her favorite leftovers in a box marked “Hog Casings” so that my dad wouldn’t go near them. It worked like a charm.
As I pulled into a parking place and headed for home, I chuckled at my outburst. Who gets so shaken up over a nearly lost meal? People in the world were starving for God’s sake. I composed myself so the fella wouldn’t think I was nuts. But as I walked through the front door, I made a mental note to visit the local butcher and find a “Pig Entrails” or “Hog Maw” box of my own.
by Marina Chotzinoff
First printed in Kitchen Sink Magazine - fall 2002
Leftovers. You love them or hate them. You either plan ahead for them, or end up making your dog real happy. I have a split-leftover personality, at times grudgingly chewing through a miserable shapeless wad, other times fighting the fella for the coveted foil package. Somehow both scenarios rattle me and I haven’t quite found my “day old” peace.
My mother is most likely responsible for my belief that leftovers have a place in this world. I grew up having to save all shapes and sizes of containers and baggies in which to wrap the remainders of our meal. I was often sent to the basement freezer to sort through containers marked “stock and bones”, “fowl”, or “veggies and herbs” to bring past items up to the kitchen for their reincarnation. Many tantrums were thrown when I realized that the bearded, frozen blocks were intended for my dinner, though I could also look forward to an after school snack made from anything wrapped in foil.
It is with this history ingrained that I ventured into my adult food life, often times considering the remnants of my meal more than the meal itself.
The men in my life, for the most part, don’t seem to like leftovers. A blanket statement like this could be digestible if left to items like fried fish or anything else too embarrassing to microwave in public. But it seems that the very idea of encountering some dishes twice in a row is more than they can face. Especially when it involves vegetables.
Thus I’ve spent many nights pleading with my fella to save each bit no matter how worthy. Whether it’s my bursts of eco-consciousness or a momentary need to save money, I stand there arguing that the pile of graying greens will make a great lunch while he shrugs and walks away informing me that they are “all mine.” What a bitter victory. The next day, of course, I don’t want the greens. I realize I really never would want these greens and goddammit why didn’t I throw them away like a normal, wasteful person? I could be eating something new. Something good. Something with a texture beyond slimy. Instead, I swallow the slime, but not my pride and watch as the fella hums happily through each bite of a crispy, melty, gooey meatball sandwich. Somehow, this time, I manage to turn down a bite knowing it might bring me to tears.
But there are certain leftovers we both look forward to: barbeque chicken destined for salad, roasted pork tenderloin crying to be a sandwich adorned with arugula and a fancy mayo, a pile of noodles that have absorbed all their soup. These are meals we talk about even while still full of their original incarnations. The vocal leftover supporter, I am often the winner of these second day meals which I happily carry to work for lunch. And to lose these meals, to find I left them on the counter or at the bus stop or (worse yet) to discover the fella has beaten me to it… This is pure sorrow.
I once longed for leftover enchiladas to such an extreme it made my fiance worry. I had been helping my mother all morning and before I knew it, it was 3:00. All day I had imagined the pork enchiladas smothered in green chile and melty cheese with a side of chipotle sour cream and green onions. I was so hungry I called my fella to ask him to heat the oven so they’d be ready when I got home. It was then he broke it to me. He and his “pal” had already finished them off. I was so mad I almost drove off the road. “Don’t mess with me.” I choked through clenched teeth. “You better be joking. In fact, you better just stop kidding me and heat up my enchiladas.” I was about to start listing off anything that could possibly replace my meal and repair his standing when he was spooked into fessing up. The enchiladas were intact and would be ready when I got there. And I better calm down, he said. Or else I’d never make it home to enjoy them.
It was during my drive home that I remembered my mother’s advice on saving favorites. My dad used to make piles of cutletkes, a classic family version of the chicken cutlet that is great hot out of the pan and even better the next day: reheated, on a sandwich, even cold with fresh pepper. There were always leftover cutletkes, but you had to be fast to get lucky. After many disappointments my mother began saving her favorite leftovers in a box marked “Hog Casings” so that my dad wouldn’t go near them. It worked like a charm.
As I pulled into a parking place and headed for home, I chuckled at my outburst. Who gets so shaken up over a nearly lost meal? People in the world were starving for God’s sake. I composed myself so the fella wouldn’t think I was nuts. But as I walked through the front door, I made a mental note to visit the local butcher and find a “Pig Entrails” or “Hog Maw” box of my own.