These days, I get randomly emotional just thinking about the passage of time. Of my life. How deep of me, right?
It’s my brother’s fault, actually. I’m convinced that younger siblings have this remarkable ability to send you through a wormhole, to the years of your youth. All it takes is one glance, and suddenly, you’re caught with a riptide of since whens. Since when did my little brother’s voice get so mannish? Since when did he graduate from Mario Kart to the real road? Since when did my little brother…cease to be little? Since when did we stop reading bedtime stories. When did we stop taking bubble baths, riding the bus together, making up stories about the clouds over the pond at our great aunt’s house, watching Home Alone 3 a million times. When did that stuff stop. Why can’t the stopping stop, for just a little while…
Mark my words, if you have a younger brother or sister: One day, you’ll be watching them slurp pho from across the table on the fourth of July, and then all of a sudden you’ll feel a tug in your chest. You’ll think it’s from eating your own pho too fast, or from watching Joey Chestnut swallow his sixty-ninth hot dog on live TV, but really, it’s your heart recoiling slightly at the whoosh of all those years gone by. It’s a happy whoosh, because you know there are so many years to come, too. There are weddings to be had and families to be made and more pho to be eaten across from one another. But this is no superficial whoosh–you really feel it deep inside. And that deepness alone gives a pang of poignance.
Okay, so maybe you won’t be eating pho on the fourth of July when your whoosh hits you. But I’m tellin ya, little brothers will do that to you–they bring out a sort of cousin of nostalgia, a visceral punch of child-like wistfulness and unfamiliar wisdom. Little brothers will tell you things about time that they themselves have yet to realize.
Little brothers will also tell you things about homemade tuna fish salad that you shouldn’t believe. For instance, that it is gross because it smells horrible.
Wrong! Homemade tuna salad is in fact delicious, especially this version, and its pungent aroma merely foreshadows its juiciness and bright flavor! Ever since I saw this recipe months ago on one of my favorite blogs, Eat Live Run, I’d been itching to try it. Now, this isn’t the typical tuna salad you’d order at a diner. And if you don’t like one of the five main ingredients listed below, you’d better omit it–all the flavors stand out pretty distinctly. Which is a good thing if you love tuna, artichoke hearts, lemons, and roasted red peppers the way I do, but a bad thing if you don’t. (Haha I think it’s pretty safe to say, if you don’t like tuna, this ain’t your recipe!)
This “Italian” tuna salad has inspired me to start making my own fishy salads more often. All you really need is the canned fish plus a little mayonnaise, plus a few other fun ingredients! And boom bam you’ve got a nice source of protein and those fabulous omega-3’s. Tuna fish salad is just so versatile, too–it is great on top of a bed of greens, toast, or even some pasta.
You can hardly even call this a recipe, it’s so simple! It can be ready in 5 minutes, unless you stop to smell the tuna along the way, harhar! I’m looking forward to tinkering around with smoked herring or canned salmon salads in the future.
Recipe: Homemade Tuna Salad
adapted from Eat, Live, Run
- one 5 1/2 oz can tuna (I used packed in water low sodium)
- 5 artichoke hearts, drained and chopped
- 4 roasted peppers, chopped
- 1 tbsp mayonaise
- zest from 1 lemon
- salt and pepper to taste
Mix everything up in a bowl, then make yoself a sammich or serve on top of some greens!
*Note: You’ll probably want to drain the tuna first, but I forgot to do this. I just forked it out of the can. It was okay with me because I used tuna packed in water. But be sure to drain if there’s a lot of excess salty or oily liquid!
It totally hurt my feelings that he didn’t want to try it. He used to do anything to please me… and did he ever have any regrets?! I’ve done nothing but care for the boy.