May I have a baggie please?

There is at least one thing that the days following Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter have in common. That's leftovers.
Leftovers are an American tradition. Leftovers spawned the rise of the "doggy bag:" The diner's excuse for taking home leftovers even if there wasn't a dog within 27 miles of the person taking them home.
As a society I think we just like leftovers. We look upon the eating leftovers like getting a free meal. And it's convenient. All it takes is a trip to the refrigerator, the invention of which made leftovers possible. I'm not sure I would be able to attack a plate of green eggs and ham that sat forlorn on the kitchen table for a day or two.
And who hasn't opened that refrigerator door without the hope of finding something buried in the back to snack on?
"Honey, what happened to that piece of steak that was sitting on your plate that you couldn't finish because you wanted to leave room for the apple pie you made? Is the pie all gone too? How about the mashed potatoes?" Companies like Tupperware made a fortune out of providing containers for the storage of leftovers. And Saran Wrap let us preserve the meals for tomorrow for just pennies. With products like these the family pets had to settle for a dish of dry pellets and a bowl of water.
Cook, eat, record
To me the ultimate leftover is the carcass of the roast turkey. There are always some shreds of meat on the bones that can be nibbled off before they find their way into the soup pot.
A couple of years ago a friend of mine approached me about the two of us co-writing a cookbook featuring leftovers. Having been weaned on leftovers I agreed, and if I must say so myself I compiled quite an impressive list of recipes. Of course Ruth developed the recipes that went with my titles; everything from Potato Fry-patties (made from leftover mashed potatoes) to Sheppard's Pulled Pie (using leftover pulled-pork). My single recipe contribution was for a cold liver sandwich where leftover calves liver is placed between two slices of bread, one of which is buttered. It's an old family recipe. My mother would make it for me so I wouldn't starve during the fasting hours between coming home from school and sitting down for supper.
Unfortunately my friend's interest in the project waned shortly after it started. And I couldn't carry it on alone because his main contribution was having a publisher who had already published one of his food-related books. You may write the greatest book since the Bible but it'll only collect dust if someone isn't interested in publishing and promoting the thing. Also cookbooks are tricky because of the need for accompanying photographs, which require, I understand, a special talent. Still I think it would have been a best seller considering today's economy when even a cold liver sandwich sounds good.
Still unanswered
Another drawback to the cookbook project was how to address the question: Where do all those leftovers come from? Leftovers usually occur because of over cooking or under eating. And there are occasions when either can cause tensions in a household. "Why do you cook so much?" or "You didn't like it?" or even "I told you not to order the 48-ounce T-Bone." However, any leftover challenge can be overcome with a well thought out plan. "What I need dear is a good leftover cookbook."
There are those individuals who embrace the philosophy that leftovers are somehow hermaphroditic - having the ability to reproduce on their own. Otherwise where does that turkey carcass come from when we know there was never a turkey dinner? A good marketing gesture would be if restaurants and supermarkets sold carcasses for turkey soup recipes. (Page 131: "A Cookbook for Leftovers").
As a matter of fact I can't remember my mother having served liver on the days preceding the making of cold liver sandwiches. If the liver didn't self-replicate itself the only other explanation is that mother was a closet liver eater.