The Leftover Wars Surviving Your Familys Hunger Games
Dear Uncle Bobby, Every year at Thanksgiving, my family turns into a pack of competitive raccoons the second the leftovers come out. There’s arguing, hoarding, people guarding the good Tupperware like it’s Fort Knox, and somehow my cousin Wanda — who brought nothing but a store-bought roll of paper towels — always leaves with half the mashed potatoes and all the pecan pie.
How do I survive this year’s war over leftover side dishes without losing my mind?
Suffocating In Pie Crust,
Martha “Just One More Scoop” Daltry
Well Martha, bless your holiday-traumatized heart, because you’ve stumbled onto one of America’s greatest seasonal battlegrounds — the Thanksgiving Leftover Wars. And make no mistake, these people aren’t your family anymore. The second that turkey hits room temperature, everyone becomes a feral contestant on a cooking-show Hunger Games.
First rule of survival? Never — and I mean NEVER — turn your back on the stuffing. That’s the crown jewel. The second you step away, here comes Cousin Wanda the Opportunistic, scooping it into a gallon-size container like she’s prepping rations for the apocalypse. She didn’t bring a dish, she didn’t peel a potato, she didn’t even sit in the right chair, and yet she thinks she’s entitled to a week’s worth of leftovers because she “has a long drive home.”
Uh-huh. I’ve got a long drive too, Wanda, and I don’t see me walking out with your car tires.
Next, recognize that the Tupperware cabinet is where the true moral decay happens. Your Aunt Linda is gonna show up with a stack of containers she bought in 1994 and demand everyone use her system for portioning. She labels everything like she’s processing evidence from a crime scene. “MacNCheese_112524_DO_NOT_TOUCH.” I swear to God she’d put a GPS tracker in the gravy if she could.
And don’t even get me started on refrigerator real estate. That fridge is full, baby. FULL. That’s not food storage, that’s geological stratification. There’s cranberry sauce from last year fossilized behind the butter. Someone’s Jell-O salad you were too afraid to eat. Ten different casseroles all fighting for oxygen. And here you come with three plates stacked like a leaning tower asking, “Is there room in here?”
NO.
There is not.
You better go bury it in the backyard and hope the raccoons are on sabbatical.
But Martha, here’s the golden rule: If they didn’t bring a dish, they don’t get a dish. That’s biblical. That’s constitutional. That’s good, clean, American ethics right there. You want leftovers? You better have contributed something more significant than a roll of paper towels and emotional damage.
So this year, be vigilant. Guard your casseroles like your life depends on it. And when Wanda reaches for that pecan pie?
You look her straight in the eye and say:
“Touch it and the Lord won’t be able to save you.”
Happy Thanksgiving, sweetheart. And may the odds — and the leftovers — be ever in your favor.
– Uncle Bobby