The Careless Cook 2

 It is one of my favorite moments in Torah. It occurs after Pharaoh, despite the pain his stubbornness has caused Egypt, a consequence of the virulent intensity of the nine plagues that God has visited on them, has once again refused to free the enslaved Israelites. Now, in anticipation of the final plague God gives direction to Moses for the people concerning the preparation and consumption of that final meal of which the Israelites will prepare before the exodus. “You shall not eat it partially roasted or cooked in water; only roasted over fire—its head, its legs, with its innards. You shall not leave any of it until morning; any of it that is left until morning you shall burn in the fire. So shall you eat it: your loins girded, your shoes on your feet, and your staff in your hand; you shall eat it in haste—" This fare will be totally consumed. I think this moment is one of great tension, and the meal must have been eaten with some degree of anxiety in the anticipation after 400 years of slavery, the Israelites will finally be leaving Egypt, albeit in a considerable rush. This final meal might be at any moment interrupted; but God’s directive demands that this meal must be wholly consumed and that there be no leftovers that might be packed and taken out with the people in anticipation of their desert wandering. Nothing must remain of the meal as the Israelites depart from enslavement in Egypt. What they cannot finish eating of the meal must at the end be burnt to ash. I do not think this meal represents a festive repastl though certainly it is one that anticipates a long-hoped for joy.  It interests me that the burning of the leftovers must take place in the morning when I would think that the Israelites would have long since departed in the night, but this refusal reflects a sense that regardless of how long the exodus will take nothing of the leftovers must be taken out of Egypt. Everything from hereon should now be fresh and new. I have wondered if this burning of what is left over is the derivation of the ceremonial burning of the last remnants of leavened food that has remained in the house on the morning before the first day of the Passover festival. The festival will begin without any leftovers in the house. In his directive Moses has insisted that nothing prepared in slavery should be taken with them when the people are freed—except, of course, for the memory of slavery. This memory provides, I believe, the core ethic of Judaism: to care for the stranger in our midst because we were strangers in the land.

I am not particularly fond of leftovers, and though sometimes I might burn the entrée I do not burn up what might be leftover. I try to offer them out. Perhaps leftovers remind me too much of yesterdays. Or perhaps I think that leftovers prevent the future. To reduce the possibility of the existence of leftovers, I’ve attempted with more and less success to learn to cook only what I and guests can finish in a single meal. Tomorrow will be time enough for another recipe. I favor an almost bare refrigerator filled with only the immediate staples: milk, butter, orange juice; fruits, vegetables and cheeses. In the freezer compartment I keep, well, mostly frozen foods, a supply that includes besides the vegetables sometimes containers of ice cream, though I find it dangerous to keep the latter about because I don’t have much discipline and am prone to consume the pint in a very few sittings. In the freezer as well I store breads that in my moments of anxiety I bake. I give many breads away. But mostly, I appreciate the clear view to the rear of the fridge and of the bottom of the freezer without having to move anything about that obstructs the clear vista. When I want to think about preparing the current meal I don’t want to settle for only what is left in the refrigerator. I prefer to make daily a list for shopping and then to visit the Co-op or supermarket for the items necessary for the chosen recipe. 

And I tend not to sit long at the dining table; I eat with my loins girded but I don’t wear shoes, though during the winters I do dress my feet in lined slippers. And I don’t yet (thankfully) have need for a staff to enable my walking. Eating alone or with a single companion I serve the meal and then haven eaten it, I (or we) arise. At the table we do not linger, During the meal we have usually engaged in pleasant and even serious conversation, but only until our plates are empty. Then we clear the table, clean the dishes and settle in for the evening. If by chance anything remains, if there are leftovers, I offer them out. With company we sit at table longer but I again attempt to dispense the leftovers liberally. 

Are leftovers a symptom of the sin of excess? I wonder why I have prepared so much more than we could ever finish at a single sitting? Is this meal a boast at my plenty? Or is the presence of leftovers evidence that we haven’t eaten sufficiently. And why, I wonder, have we not done so? What of ourselves aren’t we feeding because we have refused, even politely, what has been prepared for us and placed on the table? Or conversely, is the existence of leftovers evidence of some insufficiency—of appetite, say, or perhaps, as in the case of anorexia, a symptom of some other emotional absence, or maybe an attempt to assert some control over one’s self by choosing not to eat what is placed before one on the table. And what else is refused there? 

I wonder if there is some ritual I am avoiding in the avoidance of leftovers? Or is there some ritual in which I am participating in that avoidance?