On a Sunday morning:

“Breakfast?”

Last night’s pizza, from the fridge.

“Reheated, at least, perhaps? On a plate?!”

Too late.

It is a fact that pizza tastes better in the morning. A scientific fact:

Overnight, the herbs blend with one another—thyme, oregano, rosemary—releasing combinations of subtle, complex flavours. The lactose in the cheese breaks down into glucose; by morning, the sweetness pairs perfectly with the tart tomato. But does not seep into it; fat and water do not mix. The cheese sits comfortably on the pureed base. The crust, thus, is not soggy. The result is glorious. The taste, scientifically elevated.

These principles apply to morning lasagne, chilies, curries, stews (they do not apply to salads). Garlic, ginger aromas develop; proteins-turning-into-amino-acids deepen the dish’s flavour; starch in potatoes and flour thickens sauces to cream. Strange and wondrous things happen on leftover mornings.

The word “leftover” was coined in 1878, a pejorative term for excess food, waste; food left over that one failed or forgot to eat.Not new or novel, on a low shelf, at the back of the fridge.

The term has a second definition: “Vestige, anachronistic survival.” Memory. A lingering taste of yesterday evening. Bitter, sweet, hungover; in all cases, felt intensely.

Of a gathering, of lovers, of friends. Dinner, for two, for ten. Paella, chop suey, chilaquiles, eggs, beans, ham. Of a feast, a party. Breakfast birthday cake, steeped with sunlight and promise, through the window, spilling in.

Of ice cream and heartbreak, by morning, melted goo. Of wine, two empty bottles casting green shadows. Of the finale, victorious or defeated, the same scattered crumbs, everywhere, of tortilla chips. Of Saturday night, whatever its colour then—dusk or midnight blues, mean reds—what remains is pastel.

Of a star-studded sky, only Venus survives, a vestige on the other side of a sunrise.

There were no monsters under the bed, after all. There was… There is! Pizza! Puddings, cobblers, French toast! Hashes, bakes, frittatas! And coffee, coffee! Dreams more vivid than facts. Hope, triumphant over history. And once upon a time, in a kitchen in Beirut, a pot of stew left, naively, unguarded …

Laughter louder than grief. Love, stronger. Life, rich, and so endlessly delicious on such mornings.