Leftover Angst

I don’t like to eat leftovers.

To my male friends this is perfectly acceptable; to the lovely HoBiscuit however, this is a crime of such heinous proportions that flogging would be too good for me. She feels that if I cook a meal for the two of us and we don’t finish the entire thing in one setting, that we MUST save the leftovers and eat the exact same meal the following night.

Even if all that’s left over is one frickin taco.

It’s even worse when we go out to dinner. It’s gotten so bad that I’m actually frightened to ask her if she wants to eat out. It’s true! If I order some food and don’t finish everything on my plate HoBiscuit will give me *The Look™ and I’ll find myself quivering in a corner begging for forgiveness for the rest of the night.

*The Look™ is a skill passed down to women, from Mother to Daughter, ever since the first caveman pissed off the first cavewoman. The Look™ has one single use, and that is to put the FEAR OF GOD in any man or child who pisses off said woman. If you have never been the recipient of The Look™ then count yourself lucky and join a men only monastery before it’s too late.

I’m not kidding. It’s frickin scary.

Now, I don’t know exactly where it’s written, but somewhere within the Holy Books of Immaculate Foodology there must be a passage that says something like;

And spaketh He, “Ifith thou dost not cleaneth thy plate at every meal, whether it be at thine own table or upon the table of stranger or friend, thou shalt burn in the fiery pits of the netherworld and forevermore be forsaken from the gates of my kingdom.” So spaketh He, so it is written and so it shall be done.

Can I get an Amen?

Anywaste, we fight all the time about leftover food. I don’t like to eat it, no matter how artfully it’s concealed under sauces, cleverly mixed with other leftovers or shockingly re-spiced. Meanwhile HoBiscuit gets angry with me whenever I suggest eating out or ordering in if we have even one plastic container of leftover mystery meat. I’m scared to eat in my own home unless HoBiscuit gives my choice of food the nod. And now, she’s getting upset with me when I won’t make food decisions without her input due to my fear of The Look™. She’s beginning to think I’m a helpless moron, but I’m not. I just don’t feel safe eating anything anymore unless she tells me I can.

For some reason, that makes her even angrier.

Oh well, I guess this is all part of learning to live together and getting married. Fighting over leftovers will just be one of those things we’ll do as a couple that will drive us, and everyone around us, crazy. We’ll just have to learn to live with it. That reminds me, Honey? Can I make myself a sandwich for lunch, or should I eat the leftover taco first?

Call me, I’m hungry.