warm fuzzies

In response to an interviewer asking John Lennon why he ‘can’t be alone without Yoko,’ John Lennon had a response that I think about periodically.

“But I can be alone without Yoko, but I just have no wish to be. There’s no reason on Earth why I should be alone without Yoko. There’s nothing more important than our relationship, nothing. And we dig being together all the time. Both of us could survive apart but what for? I’m not going to sacrifice love, real love for any whore or any friend or any business because in the end you’re alone at night and neither of us wants to be… I’ve been through it all and nothing works better than to have someone you love hold you.”

When I first met my husband we worked as cooks at a hip-modern bistro in West Seattle, let’s say just a scratch over a decade ago. He was a practicing vegan/vegetarian who had dreadlocks down below his waist that he bunched up under loose beanies like Marge Simpson, but Carhartt branded. He was a new cook working the pantry so his purview was mainly the cold items and desserts, I was a lead sauté cook, a “higher” position on our tiny, four-to-five-butt line, cooking fish and mussels. It wasn’t quite love at first site, in fact I think he borderline resented me after that one time he found himself helping me prep my ‘meez’ for the night instead of focusing on his own hefty workload and bolted from my cutting board, irritated he had succumbed to his desire to help me out of the weeds. But I think, then, he loved me. I had a pretty immediate thing for him too.

Now, almost twenty years later, our love language is tuna salad.

OK OK, perhaps not our only love language but probably top five.. languages. Language. You get what I’m trying to say since I never read that book, right?

The first time I made him tuna salad I was newly twenty-one, in my tiny apartment on a local beach in Seattle called Alki. I had what’s known as a ‘galley’ kitchen: more a hardwired hot plate on top of a tiny oven, there was a tiny dishwasher, and a tiny fridge on the way to my tiny bedroom. I was specifically hungry for tuna salad one night, and Bub and I found ourselves chatting about how his mother was a straight mayo & sweet pickle relish on ‘Wonder’ bread kind of mom, [my mom had no good recipes as far as I knew] and my aunt made a very savory tuna salad that I’d always loved in my time living with her and my uncle on Vashon island when I was an elder-teen. She would open the can of tuna, drain it with the juice going to the cats, then she’d add real mayo, a ton of lemon juice, a ton of diced celery, diced crunchy dill pickles, and then finish it with a moss-like layer of dill. In my heart I think there was pickle juice but maybe that’s my own special twist. It was near 1:1 ratio of crunchy, savory ‘stuff’ to the tuna. I spoke of it poetically then to convince him, as I do now.

So that’s how I made it in my little galley kitchen, for me and my vegetarian guy who perhaps couldn’t say no to me. He took a tentative but thoughtful bite of the perfect sandwich while I watched him, fidgeting on my kitchens sidelines with that cute insecure energy that comes when you feed someone something you’ve talked too much about. He smiled, nodded, his eyes lit up, and after finishing one sandwich we greedily made another to inhale, grinning at each other the whole time. Phew! Success.

Now, when he sees me worn down, when I refuse food and tell him I’d prefer to just lay on the couch and never move again, there’s a tuna melt suddenly in front of me, and he’s gotten better than me at making it.

The secret to our love-and-comfort-fueled tuna melt (and also a perfect grilled cheese!) Spread butter on the outsides of your sandwich, then liberally sprinkle Kraft parmesan cheese (yes, that creepy green-lidded one) all over before griddling it. Bonus points if you add nutritional yeast, garlic powder, or seaweed salt. Any or all of these creates a crispy, salty, cheesy crust that is just so… *chef’s kiss* perfect.

To be honest, times are rough in our household lately. Nowadays I go down a dark path and I tend to stay there, in an over-stimulated, over-worked, vaguely depressed, & irritable mindset.

Thankfully, I’m not married to someone like me. I’m with the guy who will still stand up, make ‘our’ famous tuna salad, and then produce a perfect tuna melt for me with a cloth napkin under the plate, perhaps a sweet but slightly scoldy tone about how I have to eat something, and he’ll kiss my forehead. Like tonight. And then he does the dishes! How did I do it!?

He shows that tangible love – a sandwich that takes some effort. It’s a flag in the sand, I will handle this pain, I will take care of you ‘love.’

It’s a superpower. There is just no better way to show true affection.

Yes. I’ve been through a lot, maybe not it all – and it’s true, John. Nothing works better than to love someone who will make you good tuna salad.

(…Close enough.)