I tend to have a lot of leftovers. I cook for my son and myself, and I never know whether he’ll happily eat what I’ve made, or stare at it and me rather suspiciously, declaring that he doesn’t want any, and may he please have a salami sandwich instead. Sometimes, if I ask, he’ll agree to try the tiniest bite, just to see what he thinks, so as not to simply reject a dish out of hand. He ate perhaps 2 millimeters of the pizza ‘scarole I made a month ago (a sort of rustic pizza stuffed with greens, olives, and anchovies), and declared that he didn’t like it, which meant I ate pizza ‘scarole for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for a week. It was delicious, but the whole endeavor to eat the food I had made specifically to avoid wasting any beautiful raw ingredients morphed into a marathon eating contest pitting my appetite and blood sugar against the pizza ‘scarole in a bloodthirsty battle to the death. I guess I won? Who can tell.