Yesterday was a using-up-leftovers sort of day. I've said before that I hate leftovers, but that's because my mother's attitude to them was to put yesterday's dinner back on a plate and stick it in the microwave for three minutes. This is fine if yesterday's dinner was something gloopy like chilli or curry or stew, but when you've got half a pork chop and a rejected potato and some grey green beans looking back at you for the second time, well, you're not much more likely to eat it today than you were yesterday. I like leftovers if I can do something new with them.
The challenge: a sausage and a half, cooked; half a red pepper; about half a can of fire-roasted tomatoes, decanted; the tail end of a jar of pasta sauce before it went off.
The dilemma: no onion.
So I sweet-talked my friend into bringing an onion with her on a playdate, with tempting mentions of peanut-butter cookies and freshly baked bread. She arrived with two boys, an onion, and freshly baked bread of her own that put mine in the shade. (Which is kind of funny, because it was from a cookbook I had lent her.)
The playdate ended in some amount of chaos when the children broke into opposing factions and started sending raiding parties from one room to the other to purloin soft toys to be taken on either the Animal Train or sent in the Animal Truck (I think; we weren't sure what the difference was, but the Train proponent was adament that the animals were not going on a Truck, and there was some element of (Baby) Animal Hospital going on with the Truck) and there was a lot of shouting and then they went home but were gracious enough not to take the onion back with them.