There comes a moment, usually the Monday after Thanksgiving, when I open the refrigerator and discover a precarious tower of mismatched containers stacked like Jenga tiles. There’s gravy leaking from somewhere. The cranberry sauce has staged a hostile takeover of the pumpkin pie. And something green—formerly a vegetable, presumably—has begun evolving into a science project.

The week after Thanksgiving is a strange culinary limbo. I’m still full, still tired, and still wondering how a “small, simple meal” turned into a twelve-course feast that could support a mid-size village. And yet, my fridge remains a cornucopia of Tupperware stacked like architectural feats of engineering—tilting towers of refrigerated regret.

Day 1: The Optimist Phase
“Leftovers!” I say brightly, as though I didn’t nearly sprain my shoulder basting a turkey the size of a toddler. Friday leftovers are magical. They taste like victory, like accomplishment. Like a reward for surviving the emotional triathlon of Thanksgiving prep. I pile turkey, potatoes, stuffing, and rolls onto my plate, ignoring the voice in my head whispering, “This is the same food you’ll be eating for the next six days.” I silence it with gravy.

Day 2: Hopeful Creativity
By Saturday, optimism kicks in. I make turkey sandwiches. Turkey casserole. Turkey soup, Turkey on top of salad, which cancels out calories because lettuce is involved. At one point, I consider posting one of my “creative leftover hacks” online, but nobody needs another recipe for Turkey Surprise, especially when the surprise is food poisoning. I feel like the winner of the show Survivor: Thanksgiving Edition.

Day 3: The Resentment Phase
I open the fridge and mutter, “You again?”
The mashed potatoes stare back, unapologetic.
Hubby suggests, “We should freeze some of this,” but everyone knows that’s code for “We will discover this mystery foil-wrapped object in March and throw it away.”

Day 4: The Denial Phase
I push the containers aside to get to the yogurt.
I pretend I don’t see the turkey.
I pretend the turkey doesn’t see me.
I pretend the gravy isn’t congealing into a geological formation worthy of a science fair.

Day 5: The Negotiation Phase
I consider making turkey pot pie, then remember I’d rather poke myself in the eye with the pie server. I consider inviting people over, but it feels morally sketchy to serve food they’ll immediately recognize as Thanksgiving leftovers in disguise.

Day 6: The Near Abandonment Phase
I strongly consider shoving the leftovers into the trash with the stealth and shame of a raccoon caught in a driveway spotlight. Then I remember that wasting food is a crime punishable by guilt and the ghost of my Depression-era mother. So, I eat more leftovers.

Day 7: The Closure Phase
In the end, I make peace with the rest of the leftovers. At least I haven’t had to cook dinner for a whole week. But I vow that next year I will not cook so much. But deep down, I know I will because my Thanksgiving brain believes that abundance equals love—and either a busload of hungry strangers will show up unexpectedly at my house or famine will strike sometime between now and dinner.