As a child, I never fully appreciated the awesomeness of leftovers. In fact, I didn’t really appreciate them at all. I didn’t want the same meal two days in a row. I wanted something new. Something different. The food just didn’t seem to taste the same the next day (which in my defense is true with some foods if you don’t reheat them properly. You can’t put something that was fried and crispy in the microwave and expect it to turn out crispy—it doesn’t happen, you have to use an oven instead).
Even the word “leftovers” sounds unappealing, like it got rejected from the rest of the food. It’s strange; you could make a wonderful pot roast one night, and then the next day it’s been transformed into “leftovers”. There should be a better word for “leftovers” then “leftovers”, because ”leftovers” is a word that hardly whets the appetite.
Older and wiser, I understand how fantastic leftovers are because it takes practically no time and effort to heat up. It’s an instant meal—it’s like a frozen dinner without it actually being a frozen dinner. When I cook, I like making too much so that I’ll have leftovers, because cooking can be time-consuming and there are times when it just seems like too much effort to chop anything and combine ingredients and cook it on a stove. So I have a great appreciation for leftovers—especially when I’m hungry and want to eat something immediately.