SLICE OF LIFE

Leftovers.

I love 'em.

What could be better than coming home after a long day knowing that there is something homemade in the refrigerator?

And all you have to do is throw it in a pan for a few minutes, or put it on a plate in the microwave.

Five or ten minutes and you have a hot homemade dinner.

Take today for instance. I had driven my weekly 130 mile round trip to see my mom. Traffic was heavy, especially on the way home, when rush hour in Denver was compounded by the fact that a Chili's restaurant had caught fire, just a few miles west of the interstate I was on. The usual 75 minute drive took almost two hours.

But it was ok, because I knew dinner was waiting. Leftover turkey, a little stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, some cranberries. If I wanted to be healthy, I could make a green salad. Or not. Either way, dinner was waiting.

Other nights, there might be leftover meatloaf. Or spaghetti. Or mac and cheese. So what if it was the same thing we had eaten the night before or even for two nights in a row? Dinner is waiting.

Much better than coming home and trying to figure out something to cook, then messing around in the kitchen for an hour cooking and cleaning up, knowing the dog is waiting to be walked, and I still have 25 persuasive essays to read.

Much healthier and cheaper than fast food.

Much classier than a peanut butter sandwich.

There's only problem at my house.

My sons don't like leftovers.

"We had turkey last night," they moan.

"We've eaten lasagna three times this week," they protest.

"Do you think this spaghetti will give us food poisoning?" my younger son has the nerve to ask.

I choose not to respond to them.

Instead, I slap my third turkey dinner this week onto a plate and shove it into the microwave.

Let them eat cereal, if they want.

I choose to enjoy my leftovers!