Tale of a Tuna Sandwich
My second daughter, Meagan, was always a good eater. As a rule, she ate whatever I prepared, without complaint. As she was growing up, I only remember one thing she didn't care for, and that was fish. She would eat it if she had to, but she just didn't like fish in any form, including the tuna that comes in a can.
When Meagan was in college, she spent one summer studying at a university in Spain, where she boarded with a woman who lived close to the school. As part of the boarding agreement, Meagan's landlady provided her with supper early in the evening, long before most Spanish people eat their own late evening meals. Quite often, the landlady would prepare a boxed pizza, which she doctored by opening a can of tuna, spreading the room temperature tuna on top of the hot pizza. I like tuna, and I love pizza, but I can't imagine eating a tuna pizza! Meagan, who has always been courteous and eager to please, choked down the pizza, night after night, without ever telling that misguided woman that she should omit the tuna from her pizza.
Because of her unfortunate experience with tuna pizza, I am quite sure that Meagan has never served tuna, in any form, to her family.
That's when I make lunch, which might consist of everyone's favorite burritos, or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, or mac and cheese. Not too long ago, when lunch time rolled around, I was out of tortillas and beans, so I couldn't make burritos. There wasn't time for macaroni, and the peanut butter was almost gone. Levi asked for a tuna sandwich, before it was time for him to head to the Junior High for the afternoon, so I decided to make enough sandwiches for everyone. I put one entire sandwich on Levi's plate, knowing he would eat the whole thing. I cut the crusts off the kids' sandwiches, spoiling them just like their mother does, and put half a sandwich on Tobin's plate. The girls each got a quarter of a sandwich with their grapes.
All four kids usually sit at the kitchen table together to eat their lunch, but this day was different, for some reason. Tobin was the first to arrive at the table. He looked at his sandwich, asking what kind it was. I told him it was a tuna sandwich, Levi's favorite. Since Tobin, at age six, wants to emulate everything his Uncle Levi does, he picked up the sandwich and took a big bite. Then he stared at me with his big blue eyes opened wide, and a horrified look on his face, as he chewed that bite of sandwich, slowly and painfully, before he finally swallowed it with an audible gulp. Then he said, very dramatically, "I don't like that!"
I didn't argue. I just moved the offending tuna sandwich to the counter, and made him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Tobin didn't say a word to Evelyn, age four, when she sat down at the kitchen table. She took one look at the tuna sandwich on her plate, then looked at me and said, rather forcefully, "I'm not eating that!"
Evelyn refused to try even one bite of her tuna sandwich, so it joined Tobin's sandwich on the kitchen counter, and I scraped some more peanut butter from the nearly-empty jar to make half of a peanut butter sandwich. Evelyn gladly ate the quarter of a sandwich that I gave her, reserving the final quarter for anyone who wanted seconds.
Two-year-old Lydia was the last to arrive in the kitchen, crawling up onto her chair all by herself. Levi had joined us by then, too, and was happily eating his tuna sandwich. No one made any comments about the lunch; they were too busy chewing.
Lydia looked distrustfully at the tuna sandwich on her plate, poked and prodded it with her chubby little finger, bent over to sniff it, then picked it up gingerly between her thumb and index finger and, without further ado, dropped it on the floor. I scooped it up (five second rule) and added it to the stack of sandwiches on the counter, giving Lydia the remaining quarter of a peanut butter sandwich.
Who knew that such a disdain for tuna was hereditary?
That Tuesday, I dined quite happily on the remaining, misshapen, tuna sandwiches. Believe it or not, they were quite tasty.
When Meagan was in college, she spent one summer studying at a university in Spain, where she boarded with a woman who lived close to the school. As part of the boarding agreement, Meagan's landlady provided her with supper early in the evening, long before most Spanish people eat their own late evening meals. Quite often, the landlady would prepare a boxed pizza, which she doctored by opening a can of tuna, spreading the room temperature tuna on top of the hot pizza. I like tuna, and I love pizza, but I can't imagine eating a tuna pizza! Meagan, who has always been courteous and eager to please, choked down the pizza, night after night, without ever telling that misguided woman that she should omit the tuna from her pizza.
Because of her unfortunate experience with tuna pizza, I am quite sure that Meagan has never served tuna, in any form, to her family.
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| Tobin, Lydia, and Evelyn, on Easter morning |
My three grandkids, Tobin, Evelyn, and Lydia, spend every Tuesday morning at my house, while Meagan works at her part-time job at the church, where she is the pastoral assistant. While the kids are here, we work on an art project or two, build things out of Legos or bristle blocks, and read several stories. Levi often finishes his homework and homeschool assignments while Tobin reads a favorite Star Wars book to me. It isn't unusual for the girls to talk Victoria into painting their fingernails before she heads to her Tuesday babysitting job, around 11:00. Then, in the late morning, Levi and Tobin use the Wii together, while the girls watch, or just pick on the boys.
That's when I make lunch, which might consist of everyone's favorite burritos, or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, or mac and cheese. Not too long ago, when lunch time rolled around, I was out of tortillas and beans, so I couldn't make burritos. There wasn't time for macaroni, and the peanut butter was almost gone. Levi asked for a tuna sandwich, before it was time for him to head to the Junior High for the afternoon, so I decided to make enough sandwiches for everyone. I put one entire sandwich on Levi's plate, knowing he would eat the whole thing. I cut the crusts off the kids' sandwiches, spoiling them just like their mother does, and put half a sandwich on Tobin's plate. The girls each got a quarter of a sandwich with their grapes.
All four kids usually sit at the kitchen table together to eat their lunch, but this day was different, for some reason. Tobin was the first to arrive at the table. He looked at his sandwich, asking what kind it was. I told him it was a tuna sandwich, Levi's favorite. Since Tobin, at age six, wants to emulate everything his Uncle Levi does, he picked up the sandwich and took a big bite. Then he stared at me with his big blue eyes opened wide, and a horrified look on his face, as he chewed that bite of sandwich, slowly and painfully, before he finally swallowed it with an audible gulp. Then he said, very dramatically, "I don't like that!"
I didn't argue. I just moved the offending tuna sandwich to the counter, and made him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Tobin didn't say a word to Evelyn, age four, when she sat down at the kitchen table. She took one look at the tuna sandwich on her plate, then looked at me and said, rather forcefully, "I'm not eating that!"
Evelyn refused to try even one bite of her tuna sandwich, so it joined Tobin's sandwich on the kitchen counter, and I scraped some more peanut butter from the nearly-empty jar to make half of a peanut butter sandwich. Evelyn gladly ate the quarter of a sandwich that I gave her, reserving the final quarter for anyone who wanted seconds.
Two-year-old Lydia was the last to arrive in the kitchen, crawling up onto her chair all by herself. Levi had joined us by then, too, and was happily eating his tuna sandwich. No one made any comments about the lunch; they were too busy chewing.
Lydia looked distrustfully at the tuna sandwich on her plate, poked and prodded it with her chubby little finger, bent over to sniff it, then picked it up gingerly between her thumb and index finger and, without further ado, dropped it on the floor. I scooped it up (five second rule) and added it to the stack of sandwiches on the counter, giving Lydia the remaining quarter of a peanut butter sandwich.
Who knew that such a disdain for tuna was hereditary?
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