Source : Perth Now news
Look, I think it’s time we addressed some really big issues around here. So brace yourselves for a hardhitting experience.
Leftovers. Yes or no?
Full disclosure: I wasn’t always in favour of last night’s dinner being served up to me the next day. As a kid, nothing repulsed me more than coming face to face with slabs of cold roast beef, which was unfortunate for me because I grew up on a beef farm and there was roast beef aplenty. But the next day. Ew gross. And I didn’t rate it if it was reheated either. There was something about the texture of it that really gave me the ick. And this was before the word “ick” was even invented. I know. I’m a visionary.
Whilst I refused to let cold roast beef sully my lips, I have always been bang up for a cold sausage. And no, that’s not a euphemism. Also, can we talk about the fact that I was more willing to eat polony than cold roast beef. That is a poor life choice, my friends. But I digress.
These days, I am an avid consumer of leftovers. Although I fancy it up and call it meal prepping so I can fit in with the other kids on TikTok. Every Sunday I cook up a big batch of something. I have one portion for dinner on Sunday night, and the rest is divided between a bunch of snazzy containers to provide me with breakfast for the working week. And yes, that does mean you can find me eating microwaved butter chicken or chilli con carne at 7am. I’ve never been much of a cereal girl.
This makes a lot of sense to me. Having all of these meals in their cute little matching containers so I can snatch one out of the fridge as I dart out the door at 4:45am just makes that part of my day a tiny bit easier. In the past, I used to fuss around trying to find something to take in the cold misery of the early morning. Now, I feel like I’m organised and therefore have my life together. Nobody tell me otherwise.
Of course, not all leftovers are created equal. Something that is purpose made to be consumed at a later date is a vastly different proposition to whatever that thing is in that container at the back of the fridge. And this might be why I was put off for so long. I had a nasty habit of putting leftovers into yet another plastic container (not Tupperware — the povvo version from the supermarket) and then allowing a scientific experiment to unfold over the ensuing months. Eventually, the entire mouldy entity would be turfed into the bin without even opening the lid, for fear of being consumed by an unholy stench.
And although I wrote that last paragraph in past tense, there’s currently a container of some sort of chicken cacciatore-style dish in my fridge and I swear it hisses at me if I look it in the eye. It’s been there for so long that I feel like I can’t throw it out without its consent.
Those stinky things are the reason some of us can’t stomach leftovers. We’ve been hurt before and our trust is at an all-time low.
We can’t forget that there are people who just outright refuse leftovers of any description. They’ve never experienced the joy of next day pizza or the depth of flavour in day-old lasagne. Those poor tortured souls. Not to mention the expense. They’ll happily spend 60 dollars on takeaway and not reheat the lemon chicken for lunch the next day. In this economy? How fiscally reckless.
And then there’s the other end of the spectrum. I once knew someone who was heading overseas and decided to eat everything in her fridge before she left so that she would have more money to spend on her Euro summer and also not leave anything rotting in her fridge for the housesitter. How considerate. Until she got food poisoning on the flight to Europe and had a rather ignominious start to her vacay.
Sometimes you have to let optimism give way to self-preservation and admit that the best place for your leftovers might actually be in the bin.
