The First Time = The Only Time

Anyone who knows me knows that I am fiercely opposed to leftovers. I refuse to eat the same food more than once, and, until recently, I could never explain why. Leftovers are unappealing to me on a variety of levels. If the food was meh to begin with, why would you want to torture yourself with it a second time? And if the food was so super amazing the first time around that you have to have the leftovers to somehow remind you of the delicious meal you enjoyed, it's never the same after a night (or more) of refrigeration.

Leftover Indian food was the only cuisine I used to permit myself a second time around because Chicken Tikka Masala was so transcendent upon initial ingestion. But, let's be honest, things like that are never good the second time around. There's never enough sauce. And cold rice never gets back to the way it was.

I've gotten super burned by leftovers before (not literally. It's another weird characteristic of leftovers that they are somehow INCAPABLE OF GETTING HOT. They always maintain this unappetizing tepidity no matter how long you microwave), and I just hate taking that chance again. Maybe it has a lot to do with my wasted-meal anxiety. Or the promise I made myself as a child, brought on by many nights of rummaging through the fridge for anything to eat because we couldn't afford to buy food, that I would never eat leftovers when I was fending for myself if I could help it.

I guess I don't see leftovers as being environmentally conservative, or having the chance to enjoy the delicious things I eat for a second time, they just fill me with a sense of dread and anxiety that I can't shake, and want to forget as soon as possible. So I just don't deal with it. Oh well, I guess I could always just make a sandwich with my leftovers.

P.S. I will admit that as I wrote this post at work on a piece of paper (because I'm old skool like that), I was eating some leftover pork lo mein. And it was fucking delicious.