On Sunday, it was hot and we were moping around the house, looking for entertainment. When that failed, we turned to food. I didn’t feel like cooking, and I especially didn’t feel like eating the salad greens, carrots or radishes populating the crisper. And we didn’t want to go out, either. So I did what any reasonable foodie would do: turned over her kitchen to the creative wiles of her husband.
“Give this to deserving individuals,” he pronounced solemnly. “Of your choosing.”
One deserving individual happened to be begging at my feet. I put the bowl o’ juice on the floor.
He dumped the tuna in my food processor. A healthy scoop of the dill relish I had made that morning joined the party. A few fat blurbs of mayonnaise invited themselves, too.
I looked pained. “You’re going to blend that? How about some green onions,” I asked, “or some herbs or vinegar or tomatoes?”
A few seconds later, we had a creamy, dilly tuna spread that we slathered liberally on toasted wheat bread. I don’t really like sliced wheat bread, either. But it was so damn good I am drooling over it and I want his tunafish for breakfast now and for every meal for the rest of my life. So I’m going to make an effort to do sandwiches for dinner more often, or better yet, make him do them! Yay!