Nothing Left
by Marina Chotzinoff
In a family that regularly gives gifts that the recipient must fetch from the fridge or freezer, leftovers of the gourmet variety are a rarity and short lived should they survive their first encounter. Often times the giver suppresses Pavlovian drool and longing while the receiver opens the ice cold box anticipating greatness. This has been going on long before I hit the scene, but I was introduced early on to the pleasures of giving and receiving fine food and the expectancy the giver has for the taker to prompty share said gift.
When I was about five, my dad had purchased three fat, bacon-wrapped filets assuming he'd really be enjoying one and a half himself as there was no way his skinny, blond-haired girl could possibly finish one all by herself. I remember looking over at him as I ate, bite by bite, my 1/2 pound portion of rare and buttery steak. At first he sort of smiled at me in a knowing way - waiting it out. But I continued to eat and I think he broke a sweat. Looking back, I imagine myself chewing slowly, agonizingly enjoying every bite. And swallow. When I finished the last piece I think smoke might have shot from his ears, but he sat there as calm as could be, maybe shaking a bit, but calm. Collecting himself. I sat there very pleased with myself, having beat my dad's game and I'm sure my mom found it all terribly amusing as well. But we found an equal calm and cleared the table.
It was clear he didn't learn his lesson when he taught me how eat caviar. Every Christmas he would get a small tin for the family and one for himself. It was a true treat and it was time I learned how to do it right. My dad carefully spread a few precious eggs onto a buttered (unsalted only) piece of toast. I caught on quickly. Then, part way through a converstion, the room was suddenly silent. Everyone turned to look at me as I shoved a toast point loaded with half a tin of caviar into my six year old mouth. I don't suppose it would have been polite to yank the treasure from my mouth as one couldn't exactly turn around and offer it up to the other guests. I like to think everyone chuckled in a "isn't that cute" sort of way, but somehow I think the only cure was a loud call for another round and some desperate scroungings for crumbs and stray eggs.
There may be one or two meals that produce leftovers more coveted that the first round - chicken cutlets perhaps, or roast pork loin - and one has to be quick or clever (see Leftover Blues) to secure these remnants. But for the most part, any food worthy enough never made it to leftover status to begin with. The opposite of any good meal's remains that got pushed around the fridge for a week and then tossed, the delicacy led a privileged life.
I don't recall a time when any item like a filet, a piece of smoked fish or the rare appearance of caviar ever had leftovers. Regardless of how full everyone was, full of richness and fat and delectable treats, no one could bear to see that last morsel go uneaten. I often think of the exploding man in Monty Python's Meaning of Life and marvel that we all have yet to meet such a tragic end. Then again, 'tis the season for gluttony, so keep your fingers crossed and your eye on that last bite.
by Marina Chotzinoff
In a family that regularly gives gifts that the recipient must fetch from the fridge or freezer, leftovers of the gourmet variety are a rarity and short lived should they survive their first encounter. Often times the giver suppresses Pavlovian drool and longing while the receiver opens the ice cold box anticipating greatness. This has been going on long before I hit the scene, but I was introduced early on to the pleasures of giving and receiving fine food and the expectancy the giver has for the taker to prompty share said gift.
When I was about five, my dad had purchased three fat, bacon-wrapped filets assuming he'd really be enjoying one and a half himself as there was no way his skinny, blond-haired girl could possibly finish one all by herself. I remember looking over at him as I ate, bite by bite, my 1/2 pound portion of rare and buttery steak. At first he sort of smiled at me in a knowing way - waiting it out. But I continued to eat and I think he broke a sweat. Looking back, I imagine myself chewing slowly, agonizingly enjoying every bite. And swallow. When I finished the last piece I think smoke might have shot from his ears, but he sat there as calm as could be, maybe shaking a bit, but calm. Collecting himself. I sat there very pleased with myself, having beat my dad's game and I'm sure my mom found it all terribly amusing as well. But we found an equal calm and cleared the table.
It was clear he didn't learn his lesson when he taught me how eat caviar. Every Christmas he would get a small tin for the family and one for himself. It was a true treat and it was time I learned how to do it right. My dad carefully spread a few precious eggs onto a buttered (unsalted only) piece of toast. I caught on quickly. Then, part way through a converstion, the room was suddenly silent. Everyone turned to look at me as I shoved a toast point loaded with half a tin of caviar into my six year old mouth. I don't suppose it would have been polite to yank the treasure from my mouth as one couldn't exactly turn around and offer it up to the other guests. I like to think everyone chuckled in a "isn't that cute" sort of way, but somehow I think the only cure was a loud call for another round and some desperate scroungings for crumbs and stray eggs.
There may be one or two meals that produce leftovers more coveted that the first round - chicken cutlets perhaps, or roast pork loin - and one has to be quick or clever (see Leftover Blues) to secure these remnants. But for the most part, any food worthy enough never made it to leftover status to begin with. The opposite of any good meal's remains that got pushed around the fridge for a week and then tossed, the delicacy led a privileged life.
I don't recall a time when any item like a filet, a piece of smoked fish or the rare appearance of caviar ever had leftovers. Regardless of how full everyone was, full of richness and fat and delectable treats, no one could bear to see that last morsel go uneaten. I often think of the exploding man in Monty Python's Meaning of Life and marvel that we all have yet to meet such a tragic end. Then again, 'tis the season for gluttony, so keep your fingers crossed and your eye on that last bite.