A while ago I got the anxious dinnertime feeling that comes when there’s nothing good on the menu.
I opened the refrigerator and saw that we did, however, have plenty of leftovers. As I started heating them up I began to feel guilty. Guilty that I didn’t have something planned for dinner that would look great on an instagram photo. Guilty that the family would have to eat things they’d already had this week. Guilty that all of the leftovers didn’t necessarily “go together.” Guilty enough to even consider ordering pizza instead of serving leftovers.
Then I had a moment. A major life moment. One that I truly believe will change the way I think about things for as long as I live. I suppose if I was going to hashtag this post I would give it the popular #firstworldproblems, but I don’t even want to validate that phenomenon by calling leftovers a problem.
In my epiphany I realized that there’s no problem with leftovers. There’s a problem with the fact we have a derogatory word for food that was not prepared today. Right now. Minutes before we served it to our families. Particularly if it’s for family members who didn’t help cook and who’ll probably forget to say thank you.