On the Eating of Leftovers

My dear family does not share my love of leftovers.  Somehow, two small girls (and their Mother) have grown into finicky teens who ask "is it fresh" with some regularity, and who are seemingly unable to deal with the concept that food eaten last night and stored properly can be consumed with nearly the same enjoyment as the original offering.  One exception to this rule is pizza, which tastes just as good to me the next day, cold preferably.

Last night I prepared myself a dinner that would have gone over like a fart in church with the Kitten/Kittens.  Grilled lamb chops, Zataraine's Red Beans and Rice, and Brussel Sprouts.  I cooked twice as much as I would eat specifically with tonight's dinner in mind, which would be a repeat performance.  I thought about the Red Beans and Rice through most of the day; if you haven't tried, I recommend them.

What a joy the meal was tonight.  Just as good as last night, but with only three and a half minutes of microwave time standing between its liberation from the refrigerator and my gullet--as opposed to the preparation that went into last night's rendition.  I do this quite a bit--especially when I am solo.  Steak doesn't age well in the refer, but pasta does.  Again, the Kittens won't eat pasta that has been in the refer, so I get little side joys with many meals that I do not have to fear sharing with their hungry little selves, as they pass on the delight.

I wonder if someday when they are paying their own way, the girls will embrace the joys of leftovers.  Not out of some newfound Dickensian flintiness; rather, an appreciation of the goodness that went into the meal in the first place, and the delights of round 2.