I do not, under any circumstances, share my food. Ever. And I’m serious, so don’t try to test me, because you will be left hungry and pissed off. I will give you the shirt off my back. I will give you the money in my wallet. But I will not give you half of my sandwich. Sorry.
I have been known to give dirty looks, make malicious comments, and perhaps even use my fork as a weapon (hey, it was only three times, and their hands healed – eventually) whenever a friend or family member tries to take a bite of my food. I may even build forts around my dishes using glasses and candles from the table. May.
My thinking is, if you want it so badly, order it. Those who know me laugh at this “quirk” of mine – but most of them (those who value their hands) still stay away from the dish in front of me. My family laughs at me when we go out to eat because I always count my roasted potatoes when I go to the restroom. You can never be too careful.
I act this way because I love taking leftovers home with me. I could get three meals out of one dinner. I’ll eat it for three days. I once had an ex-boyfriend jokingly tell me, “I’d never ask you to marry me by putting a ring in your food. You’d heat it up three times before realizing I was proposing.”
I never ever let waiters wrap up my leftovers, either. I trust no one. One time I let a waitress convince me that she would do just as good of a job wrapping my food as I would. When I opened up my carton the next day for lunch, I discovered that she had neglected to pack the marshmallow dipping sauce that went with my sweet potato fries! I started crying there and then, but I knew it was my own fault for allowing myself to be pressured.
I have two older brothers, so when leftovers go in the refrigerator, they pretty much last half a day. There’s nothing worse than when you look forward to eating something all day, open the ‘fridge, look inside, and see an empty shelf. Confusion and searching behind milk and orange juice cartons quickly turns to realization and hatred.
I have been brought to tears by situations like these. I have also been brought to chasing my brothers around the house, but we won’t go into that. That’s why when I come home with leftovers now, I’ve taken to writing “EAT AND DIE” on all the cartons. It doesn’t really work but, hey, I try.
Does all of this make me a bad person? To some. I have been called a hoarder, a pig, a cafone, and some names I’d rather not say. I disagree. I just think some people are hunters, and some are gatherers. I happen to be a gatherer. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
I was hysterically laughing when I saw the episode of Friends when someone ate Ross’ sandwich (made of leftovers) out of his company’s shared work refrigerator. He’s distraught to find that a sandwich he was looking forward to eating all day (all year, frankly) was eaten by somebody else.
When he finally finds the culprit, he goes crazy on him, screaming, “You ate MY sandwich? MYYYYY SANDWICH?!” That’s when the cameras zoom out and you see frightened birds flying in all directions.
Yup, that’s me in a nutshell. Or maybe I am the nut. Who knows. Happy eating!
Do you hate sharing your food? Do you love taking home leftovers?