And for my next trick

Since my description for making a carrot cake was a resounding success and eventually replaced the original recipe in The Silver Palate, I thought I'd pass along my directions for making a tuna sandwich.

This type of sandwich is really for The Expectant Mom, and I don't mean the mom who is expecting a perfect report card or the newest edition of Martha Stewart: How To Train The Perfect Blond Child That You Can Also Use As a Serving Platter, but rather the bloated, beach ball type mom who is baking yet another human. Tuna becomes special to that type of mom, for, you see, she is limited to only 3 six ounce servings per month due to high mercury levels. Those of you who have not borne children yet may be thinking, "Gee, I'm not that crazy about tuna" or, "I'm a vegetarian who doesn't eat fish, I'll have nothing to worry about." The rest of us smugly laugh at you because one always craves what one can't have. Hairy arm pitted women will crave Captain Crunch with diet Coke, Kiwis will crave braised Polar Bear, Teetotalin Born Again Christians will crave malt liquor, and this carnivore craves fish.

And so, this recipe (told in anecdotal form) begins last Thursday, when I was craving a tuna sandwich something fierce. Actually, the craving had been brewing for a few days, but I had consumed some seafood the week prior, so I had to wait the requisite number of days before mashing fish flesh in a bowl. Red x's decorate my calendar-marking the weeks left in my pregnancy? No! The days between tuna fish sandwiches.

I love tuna salad the way my mom makes it. White albacore, a little mayo, celery, onion, and, most importantly, dill. You have to get the right kind of chips, too, and, preferably, diet cola (pretty much forbidden, as well. You should have seen me in the store in front of the small fridges they have that contain only soda. Took one out...mmm...NO, could hurt the baby, put it back, took another one out, no, don't give into temptation-you get the idea. I never thought I'd be reciting lines from the Lord's Prayer in front of rows of Diet Coke.) I got out a bowl, cutting board, onion, and celery, chopped up the veggies and threw them in with jubilant anticipation. Here comes protein! Here comes omega-3 somethings! Here comes...

absolutely freaking nothing, because my poor cupboards were bereft of tuna. Oatmeal from 1996? Check. Cans and cans of chunk pineapple that I bought in anticipation of Y2K? Check. Anything resembling fish? Nope.

I dejectedly covered the chopped compote while sniffing. While I was dipping granola bars into peanut butter as a poor substitute, I vowed to buy tuna the next day...which I did on Saturday. Instead of buying the white albacore, I bought chunk light, because I had read that it contains less mercury.

Saturday, finally home after standing in line behind ONE couple for twenty minutes while they argued over the swipe machine, I thought I'd be smart and assemble all my ingredients first. Onion/celery? HA! Already chopped. Tuna? BINGO! Dill, right here. Bread? Alri-wait, where the heck is the bread? I left it ON TOP of the fridge? Did I buy rosemary...no, don't tell me, mold. Tearing up, I replaced the ingredients, grabbed a spoon, and just ate the peanut butter right from the jar, weeping, as only a pregnant lady can, with a tablespoon full of smashed nuts.

The recipe ends on a Tuesday, today. First, I grabbed the fresh, wheat, organic no-grains-were-hurt-in-the-making-of-this bread. Got the tuna. Got out the onion and celery (already chopped! blech, old, need to redo it). Looked for the dill. Looked for the dill again. Took all the spices out, put them all back., no dill. Closed the cupboard, closed eyes, opened cupboard- there was dill. Whew.

I was dancing, dancing the victory dance, the butt shaking, I'magonnagetmytunasandwich now dance, when I reached for the UNOPENED jar of may-o-naise...

that expired in December, 2007.

I didn't cry, yell, or slump to the floor in defeat. I grabbed my purse and bought the hell out of some mayo, and I assembled that brownish chunk light tuna, with the fresh mayo, and strong onion, and green celery, and pungent dill and I slapped it on that organic wheat one million grain bread, and as I brought it to my lips, I realized, nothing-not pain of death, bribery or being threatened with a photo of a naked Dick Cheney, nothing could make me take a bite of that absolutely foul smelling monstrosity that I had created.