Give Me the Rest
Friday was either fish day or end-of-week review day. The day of the leftover-wranglers, when everything got thrown into the pan.
The fridge, the vegetable drawer, and the breadcrumbs didn’t stand a chance when Mum was in full swing. We simply called this mutation of foodstuffs into a meal the weekly review.
Do you like leftovers? Not just the ones in the fridge — but the dregs, the remainders, the things nobody’s claiming anymore. Yes, I like the situation of spotting what’s left in apparent emptiness, and making use of it. Leftovers are witnesses to time. From a pottery shard, an entire kitchen can be reconstructed. From remnants, the history of an era can be read.
Yes, I like leftovers and what can be made of them.
Now, my fondness for leftovers is relatively recent. In earlier days, I wasn’t particularly keen on making do with what remained — whether at the table or anywhere else. I lived in an age of abundance: of choices, products, and expectations. Living life to the fullest was my motto, until the fun of travelling on truly full trains began to wear a little thin. And where did the pull toward leftovers come from? It wasn’t a decision. Nobody willingly steps down from abundance to essentials. Or downward, as some well-meaning souls remarked. The shift was simply and purely the loss of everything material I had ever owned. Well, not quite everything. Some remnants remained. A large, unexpected remainder of compassion and hope never left the scene. The apparent emptiness filled itself quickly with unexpected possibilities from the remnant bin. I believe there’s a word for that: serendipity — the art of seeing the opportunity in the leftover lot.
As an older fellow with friends of a similar vintage, other areas connected to leftovers have begun to occupy me. Yes, the health portfolio is suddenly thrust into one’s awareness. The weekly review becomes a life review. “I used to run ten kilometres without breaking a sweat.” Yes, used to is — hmm — the past. The present surfaces with leftover stock from younger days. The body — out of sheer mischief — starts offering things you never ordered: rheumatism, balance troubles, the whole catalogue.
And then, at some point, the mind speaks up — or more precisely: the brain starts asking questions. Terms like Alzheimer’s and dementia become the topic of the day.
Ouch.
And where does this leftover-wrangling get you now, then?
I always enjoy the Canadian joke: “The English drive on the left, Canadians drive what’s left!”
That’s what I hold onto when I watch friends and family and notice how the light — physical, mental — slowly dims. That’s when the remaining stock comes into play. The leftover abilities can be used playfully and joyfully, and above all appreciated. I watch myself too, of course — noticing which of my own functions are beginning to fade.
Well then, I gather up the remnants and shape what can be shaped.
Not because I must — but because in the leftover bin, the best things sometimes wait.
.