The magic of leftovers

 

These are the pasties I meant; not the other kind.
Mine, however, never look this pretty.

My neighbor was one of seven children. He grew up eating leftovers, and to this day, he won’t touch them. No matter how good, if it was served before, he’s done with it. I’ve tried to explain that some things get so much better if they sit in the refrigerator overnight, but he is adamant. (I seem to run across a lot of adamant people these days, but that’s a digression.)

Right now, I have a surfeit of leftovers, and I am loving the luxury. Mostly I enjoy cooking, but it’s wonderful sometimes to have plenty to eat without having to cook. So this morning I had bangers and mash for breakfast—people eat sausage and potatoes for breakfast all the time, so why not in this form. In case you didn’t know, bangers is the Celtic term for sausages. I claimed that cooking bangers was a tribute to my Scottish heritage, but the truth is the label on the package clearly says, “Irish bangers.” They were a special at Trader Joe’s for St. Patrick’s Day. The mash, of course, is mashed potatoes. I steamed the sausages in beer, then caramelized some onion and garlic, added thyme, and made a gravy out of Better than Bouillon. (I could digress again here about exploring Scottish food; I have eaten blood pudding and found it unremarkable, but now I want to try mushy peas—I used to think they were just smashed English peas but they are a variety unto themselves. For another time.)

As luck would have it, Jordan had a sudden, overwhelming allergy attack while I was cooking the bangers. She came to tell me she was taking to her bed, and she didn’t think Christian would eat supper which would leave Jacob and me with a huge meal. I was not thrilled to have spent all that time cooking, only to serve it to a teen who would probably be reluctant about eating it and would certainly scorn the onions. Somehow I coerced Christian into joining us (maybe he was afraid of exploring bangers and  mash). At any rate, he joined us. pronounced the dinner good, and we had a lively three-way discussion of everything from the Chauvin trial to local elections for city council.

I was concerned, however, because there was nothing green on our plates. Another digression: once I was having lunch with a man I was dating when I looked at his plate, saw chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes, and exclaimed, “There’s nothing green on your plate.” He rolled his eyes and said, “Once a mother, always a mother.” That incident sticks with me.

My leftovers today include half of my cheeseburger from last night and a whole, untouched cheeseburger plus a lot of potato salad. Christian grills the best ever cheeseburgers, and I made pickle potato salad to go with them. Thanks to daughter-in-law Lisa for the recipe which includes a surprising amount of either chopped dills or dill relish, along with some pickle juice. I used what I had—gherkins—and when I first made it thought it was so “stout” that nobody would eat it. But that was ten in the morning, and by supper the flavors had mellowed and blended. Turned out to be one of the better potato salads I’ve made, which suggests to me I should follow recipes instead of winging it—at least with some things. Next time, though, I won’t be cheap and use salad mustard—Dijon would be better.

And the leftovers will keep coming. Tonight, Jordan and I will be alone and will have seared scallops (hard to get them just right with crisp outside and soft inside but I come darn close) and herbed rice. There may or may not be leftovers. Tomorrow night I am fixing tuna pasties (there I go with British/Celtic food again) for a friend and there will undoubtedly be leftovers, which will freeze nicely and make good lunches. (Another digression: I just had a shock; looked up pasties online, thinking to get a good definition, but the first definition and the Wikipedia entry are about covers for certain parts of the anatomy, male or female—not at all what I had in mind; pasties are tiny meat pies; oh my goodness!)

Megan, my older daughter, often cooks up a storm on weekends so that she has meals for the workweek ahead (she is a lawyer and works long hours). I’m thinking I should try that, not that I work long hours. Still, having those leftovers is calling me.

Excuse me, it’s lunch time, and I have half a hamburger and some potato salad to eat.