The older I get, the more I appreciate rediscovering a forgotten item, whether it’s a tasty treat or an old draft of an essay I never shared. Unlike the mayo I threw out yesterday, I think the writing is still ok to consume. Here it is, from a time when my kitchen was full of kids’ snacks and a packed fridge.

The pileup of half-empty storage containers mocks me; a peek in the crisper drawer exposes the opposite of crisp: limp lettuce, drooping scallions, curled carrots. I remind myself that lost treasures—that homemade strawberry jam—are somewhere in there, hiding behind their boxy shelf-mates. The day of reckoning has arrived.

It was time to clean out the refrigerator.

Jars and tupperware are removed from the offending appliance and now line the kitchen counter. The satisfying swipe of shelves comes next: crumbs are purged, spills are expunged. The unopened and longer shelf-life items are restored to their rightful spots. The ones set to expire soon are given front row seats so as not to be forgotten; I see you raspberry yogurt.

I survey the remaining counter items. First up: the throwing away of food past its prime. A moldy pasta sauce hits the garbage disposal. I give myself points for not tossing the whole jar in the trash; the smell of the old sauce hitting the sink is my penance for not using it up when it was still good.

More is tossed; I’m left with three half-empty jars of salsa, the droopy but still serviceable scallions, leftover roasted chicken, and a large container of homemade broth.

The broth had to be used. I'd roasted the chicken two nights prior, patted the skin with herbs and olive oil, peeled parsnips and carrots, chopped potatoes and onions, and assembled it all in a roasting pan to make my family a beautiful dinner … which almost no one ate. Big lunch, big snack, don't like, bad mood, whatever. If you’ve cooked for a family, you likely have a version of this story.

I pulled the remaining chicken off the bones later than night, packed away leftovers I'd eat for two lunches. I wanted to toss the carcass and the innards I'd fished out earlier and shove them deep in the trash. I didn’t want to be bothered with anymore of this failed meal.

But I could hear my mother’s voice, a legacy from her own mother who grew up on a farm: we don’t waste. So instead, after supervising homework and tidying and whatever else needed doing on a school night, I returned to the kitchen. The large pot came out; in went the carcass, the liver, the scraps of carrots and onions, a bit of salt, water. It would simmer and become broth. I'd skim the fat off, strain it and add it to my store of food in the fridge—where it sat as both a badge of pride and a nagging reminder that I needed to create yet another meal with that broth.

The aha moment hits me at fridge cleanout when I recall half a bag of broken tortilla chips in the pantry. I could toss everything but the chips in the crockpot on low for a couple hours, make something from these leftovers: chicken, salsa, homemade broth, chopped scallions. Add some spices and chips upon serving and voila: chicken tortilla soup.

My husband and I would eat it for two days. The kids scrunched their noses. But I hope that they see what I'm doing and store it away in the back of their minds like half-forgotten leftovers. There’s a basis for this hope.

I called home the other day to thank my parents for taking me to lunch that week and ask about their day. “Oh honey, we had the most delicious lunch,” my mom exclaimed. “I mixed all the leftover Thai food together.”

Of course she did.

And here is the thing that gives me some small comfort as I watch my children turn up their noses at the food I prepare, especially the thrown together concoctions culled from leftovers shoved in amongst the rest: I did the same thing as a child.

I grew up in a home where food was to be recycled and repurposed whenever possible, and it drove me crazy. On long driving trips we'd beg for a fast food stop. Instead my parents would drive by those golden arches and grinning kings of burgers and my mother would unpack our sandwiches made of the final contents of the fridge—ham or cheese or bratwurst or peanut butter—always letting my brother and I choose first. We passed the last bits of fruit that needed using up, a half-eaten bag of crackers. I’m sure we complained bitterly, but there was never any stopping.

I recently made the same trip, drove past the same eateries in the same town where the Pennsylvania Turnpike dumps every driver. At the stoplight I pulled out a turkey, cheddar, and avocado sandwich. The bread was a few days past peak, the avocado not quite the bold green I'd prefer.

I ate it anyway, with a silent toast to my mother. Sometimes we do consume the advice shoved on a back shelf in the far recesses of our brains—just like those leftovers.

A 2022 update: Proud to report the kids are much better about trying new things; one of them cooks a lot herself. And now, with the help of a great service, I’m even composting! Thank you mom, for all you showed me, in words and actions. Trying not to waste any of it.