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........

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