By Rachel Sauer
The Palm Beach Post
Saying goodbye is the hardest thing. We know this from FM radio and Hallmark cards and our own rambling experience. Goodbyes are hard, and they’re possibly the reason for Tupperware.
So let’s not bid farewell yet, mashed potatoes, you were too delicious. We will spoon you into a plastic bowl, make sure the lid is sealed tight and lovingly place you in the fridge. Maybe we will remember you in time, maybe we won’t.
But it will be easier to say goodbye when you have a patina of green fuzz.
Such is our relationship with leftovers.
As a people, we are almost pathologically incapable of throwing away perfectly good food. It’s a sin, whispers the voice of pilgrim forebears. It’s wrong, sighs the spirit of UNICEF. It’s everything that’s bad about America, huff those people who know what quinoa is and carry their own hemp grocery bags.
What happens to people who throw away food? Maybe they go to hell. We hoarders have no way of knowing. Our lasagna stays in the fridge much longer than it has any right to.
In our own defense, our hearts generally are in the right place. After a delicious meal, we have every intention of enjoying an encore performance the next day. We look forward to it.
“Some things always taste better the second day,” said chef John Carlino, chairman of culinary education at the Florida Culinary Institute. “You need that extra time for the flavors to really come together.”
In fact, a leftover hierarchy emerges. The leftover turkey almost always gets eaten on sandwiches. The yam souffle with the praline topping is wonderfully tasty the second day, too, and do we even need to mention the pie? The mashed potatoes, though? Eh. They’re a little grainy the next day, a little stiff. They require lengthy microwaving and the infusion of more evaporated milk. Ordering pizza is easier.
But we think about the mashed potatoes, lurking there in the fridge. Tomorrow, we say. We’ll definitely do something with them tomorrow. Isn’t there some way to make hash browns with them? Vague plans are made to Google “mashed potato hash browns.” That never happens, and the potatoes get pushed behind the soy sauce and pickles.
But oh, how we want to be people who use the leftover stuffing to make casserole! Who fold the cranberry relish into a lovely salad, who cube every last scrap of turkey into soup, who live by the Amish saying, “Nimm was du magst, iss was du nimmst” (“Take all you want, eat all you take”).
We imagine Leftover Users as people who could start a fire with two sticks.
Mostly, though, we’re people who, a month from now, will bemoan the lack of space in the fridge and start opening bowls. “Whew! What was this?” we’ll exclaim over a stinking, mold-spotted mess of vegetable origin.
We’ll scrutinize it with the exactness of a paleobotanist until the a-ha! moment: Oh, right! The green bean casserole! Dang. I meant to eat that.
In a grave near Rome, the philosopher Seneca is spinning. “It is not right to be wasteful of any thing,” he wrote.
But waste is never our intention. That’s why we save the food, why we so scrupulously ladle leftovers into bowls and claim the word “leftover” isn’t negative. “Leftovers are good!” we tell the kids. “Leftovers are delicious!” we tell ourselves.
Really, it’s hard not to think leftovers are tired, and that we’ve somehow given up when we announce, “Dinner tonight is leftovers.” Unless they’re eaten the next day, leftovers are a little sad, like a Frigidaire last call.
And who are we kidding? We’re Americans. We like new stuff. We like quick stuff. Leftovers are too draining, like the boyfriend or girlfriend we still like, but really just want to dump. The leftovers that are easy, delicious and require only 30 seconds of microwave time (pizza, roast beef) compete in the fridge with the needy, demanding leftovers that require special recipes (caramelized onions).
Yet still we save the food, ever the optimists, ever sentimental, always unwilling to say goodbye before we’re ready.