Leftovers are an acquired taste

I am convinced that the number of leftover-related deaths among the over-65s is dangerously underreported. I have no evidence for this. I haven’t conducted research and I don’t have access to secret hospital records. I just know people over 65. There seems to come a point in life when the fear of wasting food becomes greater than the fear of death. 

I’m not sure when this happens. One day you’re throwing out yoghurt because the expiry date was yesterday, and before you know it, you’re standing at the fridge holding a piece of chicken from last Tuesday, sniffing it and saying, “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with this.” 

Leftovers are complicated. 

For a start, what exactly constitutes a leftover? A chicken breast clearly does. So does half a steak. Three roast potatoes probably qualify. But what about 11 peas? At what point did someone look at them and decide they deserved their own container, their own shelf space, and another chance at life? 

And why are some foods leftovers while others aren’t? Nobody has ever offered me leftover cake. Cake is just cake. It might have been served on Friday night and still be sitting there on Tuesday, but it retains its status. Nobody asks how old it is. You simply cut a piece. 

Pizza exists outside the normal laws of food safety. People who wouldn’t dream of eating four-day-old chicken will happily find a slice of pizza in the fridge, eat it cold while standing at the kitchen counter, and regard the experience as a win. 

But the bigger question isn’t what a leftover is. It’s why we keep it. Because most of the time, we already know we aren’t going to eat it. Dinner ends on Friday night. There are two pieces of chicken left. Nobody wants them. Nobody is going to want them tomorrow either. But throwing them away feels wrong. So we put them into a container. 

On Monday, we move the container to get to the milk. On Tuesday, we move it again. On Wednesday, we open it, look at the chicken, briefly consider it, then close it. By Thursday it has completed the required mourning period and may finally be thrown away without guilt. 

Apparently leftovers need closure. 

This is also where age becomes a differentiator. Young people demand information. “When was this made?” Older people don’t understand the question. It’s one of the rare occasions when it’s the young who suddenly consider their mortality. The same people who might drive too fast, go bungee jumping, or forget to shower become health and safety officers when confronted by brisket from last Shabbos. People who can’t tell “their” from “there” can apparently recognise salmonella from 20m away in a dark alley. 

Older people, meanwhile, throw caution to the wind. One sniff and “It’s perfect!” 

“Perfect” is a strong word for six-day-old brisket. 

The science, irritatingly, doesn’t support this approach. Food-safety authorities generally recommend eating refrigerated cooked leftovers within three to four days, and harmful bacteria can’t necessarily be seen, smelled, or tasted. Adults over 65 are also at greater risk of serious illness from foodborne disease. 

In other words, precisely when we become most confident in our ability to assess chicken by smell is when we should probably stop doing it. 

I suspect all this has less to do with food than with how we grew up. For generations that knew scarcity, or were raised by parents who did, throwing away food was almost immoral. You finished what was on your plate. You saved what wasn’t. You didn’t throw away perfectly good food simply because you didn’t feel like eating it again. 

And maybe that’s why we struggle with leftovers. We don’t like admitting that something that still has value no longer has value to us. 

We do it with clothes we haven’t worn in 10 years. Cables belonging to appliances we no longer own. We keep “good” boxes. And 11 peas. 

We’re very good at acquiring things. We’re much less comfortable deciding when we’re finished with them. So perhaps the fridge isn’t really a place where we preserve food. It’s a waiting room where we put things until enough time has passed for throwing them away to feel morally acceptable. 

Which brings me back to the over-65s. If you visit your parents and they offer you brisket, don’t ask whether it’s still good. Ask what day it was made. And if the answer begins with, “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with it”, have the cake.