Too Much Tuna

“Do we have any tuna?” Scott asked me six weeks ago.

This is the question my husband asks me every few years when he is considering our food stores and wondering whether we will survive the Zombie apocalypse. He does not particularly like nor dislike tuna, but it is a good reliable standby for apocalyptic times, provided you have a can opener.

“There are three or four cans on the lazy susan in the kitchen,” I reply. I am tempted to add, “In the exact same place as when you asked a few years back the last time you were checking our storage.” But I refrain.

I listen from the family room as he rummages for the next several minutes. First in the kitchen, then the pantry.

“Are you sure?” he asks. "I don’t see any.”

Even with a compass and a map, he would still be lost foraging in our shelves. It is so fortunate that I am the designated food-gatherer in our clan.

I put him out of his misery. I walk to the lazy susan and pull out five cans. 

“Hmm,” I say. The cans have long since expired. I guess it has been a few years since Scott checked our tuna stores. Tuna is something he likes to stock, not something he eats.

But every few years I buy tuna for Scott. I do not eat it either. In my home in the sixties, I had two sandwich options for lunch: peanut butter or tuna fish. And tuna salad was my mother’s go-to quick fix meal for her family of six. (Yes, this was before the existence of the household microwave.) I do not hate tuna. I just ate enough to last a lifetime. I do not feel compelled to eat it.

So a few weeks ago, to please Scott, I bought tuna at Costco. I showed him the shrink-wrapped set of eight cans of Kirkland Albacore before storing them. He was satisfied. He has his tuna. He is prepared.

Last Saturday morning, the day we have designated to batten down the hatches and shelter in place, Scott asks, “Where’s the tuna?” 

I do not have the heart to make him forage. I set my computer down, get up off the couch in the family room, walk into the kitchen and pull out the shrink-wrapped set and put it on the kitchen counter.

Then I resettle myself on the couch. 

“And if one were to make tuna salad for a sandwich, how would one go about it?” Scott asks. 

This sort of question, the type that conveys a learned helplessness in the kitchen, is usually a telegraphed request for me to make him a sandwich. I look up from my computer. 

“Did you just want me to make you a sandwich?”

“No, I want to make it,” he says. His tone is insistent.

I am surprised. Is he assuming I will go first in this latest apocalypse, I wonder, and that he needs to know how to make tuna fish salad sandwich. Or is he simply embracing social distancing from me. 

“It all depends,” I say. “First, you start with the basics, the tuna and mayo. Then you can add whatever you like. A little chopped celery for crunch. A little chopped onion for a bit of bite.You can freshen it a bit with a little lemon juice. Or you can make it sour with pickles or sweet with some pieces of apple. Whatever you want. You could even make a tuna melt.”

“I think I’ll keep it simple,” he says.

He rattles in the refrigerator for the mayo. Then I hear a slight swoosh as the can opener pierces the can and then the grating as the cogs grind against the tin of the can. I do not look up from my computer. My mother (and grandmother) ear has been trained to monitor progress based on sound. I hear a second swoosh. And then a third.

“Wait a minute,” I say. “What are you doing?"

"That’s way too much tuna,” I warn. “A single can makes two or three sandwiches.” 

“You can’t possibly eat that much,” I declare.

I have raised the ante by invoking the phrase used by three generations, echoing a no-nonsense waitress in Hawaii who used the phrase when she refused to serve my father a third pineapple and macadamia nut ice cream sundae.

He opens a fourth can and asks, “How much celery should I use?”

We have ordered the grandkids away in our exile. I know no one will join him for lunch. I know I do not want a tuna sandwich. I know he is making all that tuna salad for only himself. I am perplexed, why so much tuna.

I cannot really focus on my computer screen. I hear the mayonaise glop into a bowl, then wet smooshing as he stirs the mayonaise and four cans of tuna together. 

“Don’t worry. I will eat it all,” he promises. Two pieces of toast pop up. I look over to see him spreading a thick layer of tuna on the toast. He takes a big, self-satisfied bite.

I look at that large, square plastic container of tuna salad. I am curious to see how long it will be until he cracks. 

On Day 2 of our exile, he eats thick tuna sandwiches for lunch and dinner, and for snacks, he dollops tuna onto crackers with great gusto. 

At dinner time on Day 3, he weakens.

“You said there was a way to make a tuna melt?” he asks.

This is not really a question, but a small plea. Not quite the concession I am looking for--that his eyes were bigger than his stomach.

“Would you like me to make you one?” I ask. I try to sound supportive, to scrub any sense of triumph from my voice. “So you really do need me in that zombie apocalypse, after all,” I want to say.

“Would you?” he meekly asks. 

So I make him a tuna melt. Two thick pieces of multi-grain bread grilled to crispy, golden brown perfection. The bread crunches when I slice the sandwich crosswise, a fresh tomato slice escapes and melted cheese slowly oozes down mountains of tuna. I can almost feel its warmth just looking at the sandiwch. It is a damn fine tuna melt. I am almost tempted to take a bite. 

On Day 4, I make Scott two more tuna melts, one for lunch and another for dinner. They do not look nearly as sumptuous. We have run out of tomatoes. I have deliberately overstuffed each sandwich, and when I flip each over in the pan, I am careless with the tuna that escapes. I all too eagerly scrape these tidbits of fried tuna into the trash. I want to be rid of the tuna. I am reminded of Dorothy Parker, who supposedly defined eternity as one ham and two people. Too much tuna surely must be a close second. I am glad we did not buy a ham for our exile.

“Well. . . ,” Scott says on Day 5. He is between Zoom calls on the big monitor he has set up in the dining room.  

I do not make him ask. I know what he is thinking. It is lunchtime, after all.

“Did you want me to . . .?” I ask.

“Would you . . . ?” he asks sweetly. 

Do I note a slightly penitent tone, I wonder.

“Maybe you’d like something else for lunch,” I suggest. “Our larder is stocked for an apocalypse, after all.”

“No,” he says. “I need to finish that tuna.”

“Do you?” I ask, knowing full well he will not let any of that tuna go to waste. His parsimonious ways are legendary.

“Then, I will make you a tuna melt,” I declare. “And we will celebrate the end of the tuna.”

Then I add, “But . . .”

He looks up. “But . . . “ he repeats. 

“I want you say it,” I say. 

“Say what?” he asks coyly.

“You know,” I say. “Admit it. It was too much tuna.”

He laughs. I laugh. Uproarious, full-bellied laughter. So much, we cannot contain it. Each time we settle into soberness, we catch each other’s eyes and laughter explodes, cascading out all over again. Perhaps an apolcalypse is not the end of the world, I think, as long as we have each other to laugh with.

Scott does not say it, he makes no concession. But his laughter satisfies me. I make the last tuna melt.

He does not devour it. He eats it slowly and deliberately without much relish. He is determined to finish his tuna.

He has been true to his word. He has eaten all four cans of tuna over our four and a half days of exile. 

“Dear,” I say, as I watch him take his last bite.

“Yes, dear,” he replies.

“I was wondering . . . .”

“Yes,” he asks.

“What do you want for dinner? . . .  Tuna, perhaps.”

A Legendary Day

“Marshall’s cheating,” Adella  yells out. “It’s not fair.”

It is only seven o’clock in the morning. I do not have time for arguments. Arguments explode, creating bruised egos. And bruised egos need to be coaxed back to normality. These two cherubs need to eat breakfast, get dressed, comb their hair, and get out the door by 8:15. 

Will this altercation pass, I wonder. Or do I need to address it head on? 

My question is soon answered. Adella will not let it drop.

“I’m not playing with you. You’re not following the rules!”  

They are playing with Marshall’s Pokemon cards, and I am pretty sure there are no rules. Unless Adella, the alpha, first-child, has made up some arbitrary rules that Marshall, the diplomatic second child, must follow. I am pretty sure that despite all her seven-year-old erudition, even Adella has no idea what the real rules are for playing with a deck of Pokemon cards. 

“But who will play with me?” Marshall asks.

There are so many things I need to do: finish washing some dishes left from last night, empty the dishwasher, clean off the kitchen table, help Marshall and Adella with their morning tasks, make myself presenable, pack my swimming bag, and maybe if there is any extra time, pack my suitcase for a flight to Seattle that afternoon. 

But his plea is so plaintive. And I realize if I do not take the time to play with Marshall, we will never get out the door. Playing Pokemon is a stitch in time. I turn off the faucet, wipe my hands, and head for the family room.

“I will play with you Marshall,” I say. 

“You have to sit here, Granma,” he says pointing to a spot next to a black folder he has placed on the carpet as a playing mat. He sits opposite me.

Drats, I think. Sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor greatly limits my ability to multi-task. I cannot help but wonder if this is part of his plan. Does he know how much effort it takes me to get up off the floor?

“You get four cards and I get four cards,” Marshall directs.

Well, maybe there are some rules, I think. I simply need to figure them out quickly enough to lose as quickly as possible so I can get back to my tasks. 

“You put down a card. I put down a card and we see who wins,” he says.

Simple enough. Except that I am unsure what criteria determines who wins these battles. 

He puts down a Mewtwo with 130 HP. I deliberately chose a Wartortle with only 70. 

“You win Granma,” Marshall says genuinely excited, his diplomacy shining.

And I am reminded that he is only four. Marshall can only count to 20. He still says “One zero” when he sees the number 10. He has no idea that 130 number is greater than 70. 

He puts my winning cards to the side of the mat. “Let’s do it again,” he says as he lays another card down.

It is a fire Pokemon. Perhaps he is using card type to determine which card wins. Surely a Vulpix, a fire pokemon, will destory a grass Pokemon, I reason. I play a Bulbasaur.

But in Marshall’s world, the Bulbasaur wins.

“You win again, Granma,” he says, overjoyed, as he places my winning hand to the side, atop my previous hand. 

This is not going as planned at all. I am never going to lose at this rate. So I abandon reason and settle in. 

He puts down another card. I randomly pick another one. It looks weak. But who am I to judge?

“You win again, Granma,” Marshall squeals for a third time. Is he trying to make sure I win as much as I am trying to make sure I lose, I wonder.

We each have one card left. Perhaps I will bring this game to a quick finish by winning. I can only hope.

But not to be. Marshall decides we need more cards, so he picks up the discarded cards and hands half of them to me. Clearly the rules of this game are fluid. 

The redistribution of the cards works in Marshall’s favor. He rallies, winning three battles in a row. And just as I think he is about to win the game, he announces, “We need more cards.” This time, he gets up and runs downstairs, searching for some of his secret stashes.

Is it worth the effort in getting my sluggish, grandma body off the floor, only to have to sit back down again, I wonder. I decide to give Marshall a few minutes.

And as I wait, in-between reviewing my stymied to-do lists, I reminisce about my son Daniel. Twenty years ago, he had a Pokemon poster with all 151 Generation 1 Pokemon on the bedroom wall next to his bed. Daniel earnestly tried to school me at bedtime, teaching me all the Pokemons’ names, their types, their strengths and weakenesses, their stages of evolution. Daniel was a third child, so I confess that most nights I often employed the tried-and-true parental skill of feigned interest: I repeated names and words just enough to appear to be listening. So, despite Daniel’s constant drilling, I never really got beyond mimicking Pikachu’s stoccato lilt when saying its name, and recognizing that Charizard, the Pokemon on his most valued card, had evolved from a Charmander and Charmeleon.

Who knew I would live to rue my inattention? That a fad that I thought had long since passed would be new once again. 

“I found some more cards,” Marshall says as he runs back holding up two more cards. “And this one is legendary.” He hands me the other, non-legendary card.

“Legendary?” I question, hoping for clarification. But there is none. 

“Yes, legendary,” he says as he plays it.

Where has he learned this word, I wonder. From Adella? Or a friend at preschool? I look at card. Is it truly legendary? I can see nothing that distinguishes it from any of the other cards. 

Alas, its legendary status does not help it, for my card beats it.

“You win, Granma,” Marshall shouts. “You win the game.” 

He celebrates. He is truly happy for me. I am just baffled. Clearly he is a second child, I think. Adella never would have let me win the first hand.

“Let’s play again,” Marshall says.

And I am caught. I have no choice but to play again. How can I not? What self-respecting grandmother could walk away? Marshall needs his turn to win, his turn to shine. 

Then I wonder, is this all part of his plan. Does he let me win because he knows I will not be able to walk away? Is this his strategy to keep me playing? Surely he must be bound for a career in the diplomatic service in a post-Trumpian world. Or am I getting ahead of myself? My world view must be a bit askew if I am attributing such subtle, sophisticated machinations to a four-year-old.  

Nonetheless, we play another game, much like the first. We play several more hands. Never am I able to discern any pattern to the winning hands. And just when I am certain he will claim victory this time, he throws his hands up and enthusiastically shouts, “It’s a tie. Granma, we tied.” 

This time I cannot allow his winsome wiles to derail us. We have miles to go. I need to be proactive, to squelch any tugs at my heartstrings.

“That was fun,” I say and before he has time to suggest a third round, I add, “But we can’t play any more. We must hurry to make it to your swimming lesson. ” 

So we send Adella off with Pop Pop and we scurry out the door into the car, legendary card and all. And as we debate whether one stops or goes at red traffic lights (our ritual every car ride), I briefly glance back to see him admiring his legendary Pokemon card, holding it up to the car window. Because my part of our debate is rote, having learned it over many drives, I have time to ponder today’s Pokemon game, indeed, a game for the ages. 

Not only was Marshall able to entice me to begin the game, but he was also able to entrance me to continue. Is it an innate trait in the wiring of a second child that enables him to elicit my grandmaternal instincts?  After all, cuteness in babies, and puppies for that matter, is an evolutionary trait according to a recent study out of Oxford University that concluded “cuteness helps infants to survive by eliciting care-giving,” Is Marshall a highly evolved, cute second-child eliciting attention?

Or has the constant tug-of-war for adult attention with his elder sister pushed him to learn this behavior? His mother tells me that he has long since learned to concede to Adella as he vies with her for the best car seat, the remote control or the opportunity to explain something to an adult. Not able to command attention as quickly or as completely as a first-child, has he learned the dance of acquiescence and negotiations, and the subtleties of charming adults?

“Granma, help!” Marshall wails, ending my ruminating. “My legendary Pokemon--it’s gone.”

His joy, delight, and diplomacy have evaporated. Just tears and raw emotion. He is distraught. I pull over. I stop the car and turn around to assess. That legendary Pokemon that he had been balancing on the lip of the weatherstripping that does not quite hug the car window has slipped down into that narrow space between it and the window. It is gone. 

I get out and go around to open his car door. I roll the window up and down several times, hoping the card will somehow magically appear. (Is it not legendary, after all?) It does not. It is forever lost to the abyss of the car door innards.

“I’m sorry I can’t get it,” I say.

Marshall is inconsolable. “Maybe you can get Pop Pop to smash the door in. Then we can get it,” he suggests through his sobs.

“I don’t think we can do that,” I say. Despite its legendary status, I suspect the value of this Pokemon card is not equal to the expense of destroying a car door. “Maybe I can buy you a new legendary Pokemon,” I suggest. “Will that work?” 

What I do not say is that his tears have kicked my grandmaternal instinct into high gear. I am ready to buy him a hundred legendary Pokemon. Provided they are as inexpensive as I think they are.

He nods through his sniffles, satisfied that his grandmother can make his loss whole.

And I will. After swimming lessons. That is, if I can figure out just what a legendary Pokemon is. Oh, if I’d only listened to Daniel all those years ago.