By my nature I tend to be a scavenger. I grew up in a home where the family was sufficiently small that making a large dinner one night provided meals for days to come. In my home now, my wife tends to follow a similar practice. My wife tends to be a quality culinary priestess. I can count on one hand the number of times I have been disappointed by her meals. I am generally able and willing to eat anything. Because of that, I spent time as a professional food tester. . . not to be confused with a taste tester. Two years of my life was spent subsisting upon others' private cooking, my own improvisation, and even more time eating in school cafeterias. These cafeterias have had varying degrees of quality in themselves.

Upon entering the workforce I found leftovers to be a reality. Many teams catered their meetings either due to early morning appointments or client presence. A significant portion of the breakfasts I consumed my first year of employment came from meeting leftovers. My cubicle was right outside of the main marketing meeting room. In my previous job, I was provided a custom meal for my lunch. Pretty much whatever I wanted was made for me. Once the cafeteria closed, the leftover were then put out for free consumption. If I timed my arrival correctly, I could indulge in an afternoon snack.

My current job has exposed me to a new kind of pain, thanks to the years of conditioning through which I have passed. After a party, somebody left some cake in the break room (my first indicator of trouble). Not wanting to let perfectly good food to go to waste, I ate some. The next 24 hours left me suffering from acute food poisoning. The occasional pizza pie, left over from random meetings, is not only varied in flavor, but also now varied in quality. After some passable Mexican food, I discovered some pizza boxes in the break room. My hopes rose, but were then dashed when I realized only the center of the pizza had been left when the pinwheel slices had been removed. I pulled the leftovers from the cardboard, popping it into my mouth. Within seconds I realized why the center had been left.

It had the consistency of pre-chewed dough.

Had the center not been cooked? Had this portion been ingested, only to be rejected at the insertion point? Who left this? Was it intentional?

After that experience, I found myself searching for the small envelope with the $20 inside.