When I eat tuna sandwiches, I think of my dad
When I eat tuna sandwiches, I think of my dad.
I don't think anyone else in my family ate tuna sandwiches, just us. When the can was opened, then drained, Mom would steal a tiny chunk before we put the mayo and mustard in it. Two spoons of mayo to make it creamy and a spoon of mustard to make it yellow and tangy. Then spread it nice and thick over white bread. There was only ever enough for two sandwiches: one for Dad, and one for me. Sometimes I put relish in it, sometimes extra pepper; nowadays I sprinkle sesame seeds in it. No matter how I make it, I always think of sharing a can with my dad.
It always makes me smile.
I don't think anyone else in my family ate tuna sandwiches, just us. When the can was opened, then drained, Mom would steal a tiny chunk before we put the mayo and mustard in it. Two spoons of mayo to make it creamy and a spoon of mustard to make it yellow and tangy. Then spread it nice and thick over white bread. There was only ever enough for two sandwiches: one for Dad, and one for me. Sometimes I put relish in it, sometimes extra pepper; nowadays I sprinkle sesame seeds in it. No matter how I make it, I always think of sharing a can with my dad.
It always makes me smile.
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