I generally don't eat leftovers. It's not that I don't like leftover food, it's just that I get tired of food and don't feel like eating the same thing again until after it has expired.
Last Friday I went out to lunch with a friend and former co-worker. We went to one of my favorite Italian restaurants and I got one of my favorite dishes, the Pane Rotundo, a bread bowl full of shrimp in a creamy, buttery, garlicky sauce. It has about 7 gillion calories and a week's worth of fat. It. Is. So. Good.
Unfortunately, I wasn't able to finish it. I know, I know. Me? Unable to finish a dish? Not possible. But it's true. So I had the waitress box it up, knowing that I probably wouldn't ever eat it, but just in case...
Well, this afternoon I looked in the fridge and thought to myself, "Self, I'm going to eat that leftover Pane Rotundo." So I did. And I enjoyed it. Then I went about my day.
Somewhere around three hours later, I started to feel uncomfortably warm. And then a little clammy. And then a little crampy. And then my mouth started watering, not in the good way. And then the tsunami of nausea hit.
I'll spare you the details of the rest of the day, but suffice it to say that I had to call Neil to come home early to watch the Bean while I spent some quality time in the bathroom praying for a quick death.
Needless to say, I don't think I'll bother bringing the food home with me next time.