Richard Hearn contemplates death by leftovers
I have a prediction about my death certificate, I think one key word will be under cause of death – leftovers. Perhaps someone else is being pro-active and chiselling the word out on a gravestone, probably in Times New Roman (I’ve been reading a very good book about fonts, Just My Type).
Leftovers – in some ways they’re my specialist subject, my choice for an Olympic event. (They often introduce a new event for variety, don’t they? I’ll keep my fingers crossed for London 2012.) But that makes me sound like I’ve got some expert tactics or skill, but all I’ve done is put the hours in. In fact, I’m constantly undone in the area of leftovers, my tactics are often all wrong.
“Leftovers are my choice for an Olympic event”
All I know is that with a seven year old and a two year old who can be fussy with food; a wife who’s temporarily off her food; a short cottage holiday that meant we were either eating out or not able to ‘freeze for the future’, a perfect storm was created in the last week – a leftovers event that could probably be seen from space.
I still get it wrong. Do I anticipate having leftovers when I look at a menu – perhaps written in Ariel font, or maybe Comic Sans (there’s that font book again) and order my own food? No. Do I alter portion sizes when cooking? No. Can I say that I never glance at my children picking at their food and sometimes wonder whether any will be left? Hmm, I can’t.
In some ways, leftovers is a noble pursuit, all about not wasting stuff. I don’t like to see a plate with stuff on at the end of the meal. (Conversely, I’m not a fan of a plate that’s empty at the beginning!) Timing is important.
If I eat later than the kids sometimes the leftovers constitute a kind of starter, just less well-presented. It consists of food smeared and scattered across two plates as if a mini explosive device has been set off. It won’t win any awards on MasterChef for presentation.
My moment of clarity happened at a recent extended family outing, where everyone was slowing down with their lunch, and my nephew turned to me and my dad (or ‘Grandad’ as he’s become known) to help clean up the plates. This is a damning indictment of the greedy gene we share. (And no, if you’re accessing the audio book version of this column, greedy Jean isn’t some long lost aunt.)
I’ve made a decision. I should get a tattoo on my menu-holding hand.
The words ‘Don’t be so greedy’ imprinted permanently. (Perhaps in capital Rockwell Bold for extra emphasis.)
