Leftovers have always been a bit of a culinary underdog. In pop culture, they’re the sad, wilted contents of plastic containers relegated to sitcom refrigerators — proof of a dinner gone unloved. Yet for me, leftovers have never been a source of shame. Growing up in a family of six, including two perpetually ravenous brothers, leftovers were a rarity, and when they appeared, they were a kind of edible jackpot. The prize might be a sliver of Mom’s baked spaghetti or the last spoonful of Dad’s white chicken chili, spooned unceremoniously onto a tortilla chip or two. In a house where food disappeared almost as quickly as it was made, the idea of leftovers as a burden simply didn’t exist.
But the pandemic changed my relationship with leftovers, as it did so many other things. Suddenly, there was no line between breakfast, lunch and dinner — time blurred into endless stretches punctuated by snacks. Cooking at home was both a necessity and a tedium. The monotony of reheating last night’s dinner collided with the allure of delivery apps, which dangled the promise of something new and indulgent. During those early lockdown days, ordering takeout wasn’t just about food; it was also a symbolic act of solidarity with small businesses. Who could resist Thai curry when the alternative was a third day’s helping of tepid spaghetti?
That said, the delivery era was relatively short-lived in my kitchen. Inflation hit, the novelty wore off and my credit card bills needed a break. I found myself cooking more, out of both financial prudence and a desire to regain control of my meals. In my now two-person household, his return to home cooking brought an unexpected companion: leftovers.
At first, I’ll admit they did feel a bit like a chore, a sign of my failure to portion correctly or eat everything while it was fresh. But somewhere along the way, my perspective shifted. Leftovers became less a consolation prize and more a creative challenge. Inspired by books like "PlantYou: Scrappy Cooking: 140+ Plant-Based Zero-Waste Recipes That Are Good For You, Your Wallet, and the Planet” — which I read after author Carleigh Bodrug was interviewed by my colleague Michael La Corte — “Perfectly Good Food: A Totally Achievable Zero Waste Approach to Home Cooking,” and Julia Turshen’s absolutely fantastic “What Goes with What: 100 Recipes, 20 Charts, Endless Possibilities,” I started planning meals with their second act already in mind. A pot of roasted vegetables became the filling for quiche. Sunday’s roast chicken transformed into chicken Caesar wraps for an easy weeknight dinner.
What I discovered was a subtle joy in this kind of kitchen alchemy. Leftovers weren’t just practical; they were a form of play. Could I turn two cups of rice and some sad parsley into the backbone of a respectable dinner? Could last night’s roasted carrots hold their own in a salad with miso dressing? The answer, more often than not, was yes.
It seems I’m not alone in my reevaluation. Culturally, leftovers are experiencing a kind of rebranding. Apps like Too Good to Go have turned them into a trend. The app, which matches users with heavily discounted “surprise bags” of food from local restaurants and grocery stores, has become one of my favorite indulgences. One morning, I scored a bag of sourdough bagels from a local bakery, which became the base for towering breakfast sandwiches made with leftover roasted vegetables, scrambled eggs and a swipe of pesto. Another time, I received half a container of meatballs in red sauce, which I transformed into a pizza topped with olives and roasted red peppers. I’ve gotten some slightly stale baguettes which made for great baked French toast.
Even Whole Foods has joined the movement, offering its own grab bags of surplus food via Too Good to Go. A recent haul included a ham sandwich, fresh tortilla chips, pork burritos and a sturdy little tub of mushroom barley soup.
The cultural shift extends beyond apps. At restaurants, BYOC (bring your own container) is becoming more common, though the etiquette and legalities of the movement remains a bit murky in the United States. In many Asian and European countries, bringing reusable containers to pack up leftovers has become standard practice, a practical nod to sustainability. However, in Chicago, I’ve spotted diners discreetly pulling silicone containers from their bags at both hole-in-the-wall pho joints and glossy small-plates spots, while mainstream food publications, including Eater, have begun championing this practice, calling on diners to take the responsibility of leftovers into their own hands — literally.
Pall Musaev, CEO of the reusable container company Mr. Lid, recently told me he’s seen an uptick in people bringing his products to restaurants. Musaev envisions a future where restaurants and municipalities work together to promote reusable containers, perhaps even offering branded, swappable ones.
“What I love about a reusable container is that it is a net benefit the first time you use it,” he said. “From the first-use it is already reducing the need for one single-use container. I do believe that we need to create a functional product that also allows for self-expression. What does your container say about you? Who's your favorite team? What's your personality like? Do you exude luxury?”
He said: “Collaborations will be critical to the success of reusable containers. Not only restaurants, but municipalities will play a key role in facilitating this change by acknowledging gaps in bylaws but also by offering a turnkey solution for patrons and allowing the use of reusable containers. Restaurants and restaurant supply companies could start to get involved and create a turn-key solution of branded, generic containers that are swappable. I believe any restaurant chain that gets in front of this movement will benefit as a leader in the effort to reduce single-use.”
It’s a charming, if optimistic, vision of a world where leftovers are not just saved, but celebrated.
And why shouldn’t they be? There’s something inherently hopeful about leftovers. To tuck food away for another day is to believe in the future. To trust that you’ll want that pasta again, that the soup will still be good. It’s a quiet act of care, not just for the planet or your wallet, but for yourself.
These days, I see my leftovers as small opportunities — a way to stretch the limits of my creativity, yes, but also a reminder that even the most unassuming meal deserves a second chance.
