You take two cans of tuna, drain them well;
the tuna should be packed in water. Then
you flake the tuna in a bowl - be zen
about it, use your fingers. Now you tell
your sous-chef to chop these quite finely: red
onion, dill pickle, celery, garlic,
Italian parsley leaves, no stems. The trick
is in proportions, but I fear my head
can't fit those in a sonnet. Mix this most
attentively with mayonnaise, dijon
mustard, salt, pepper, lemon juice. My own
prescription is four sandwiches, on toast.
Where comfort food's concerned: in summer, tuna.
Meat loaf is served in winter, under luna.
My dear old friend Lucy is a poet. I was a college “writer” who discovered he wasn’t much inspired to write, and have always stood in awe of those who can produce, those who can realize their dreams, those who can put their money where their mouth is by not only saying they are a writer, but being one. Every five years or so, I am inspired enough to write a poem. I had told Lu I wanted to write a sonnet, and of course she encouraged me. I had also promised her my tuna sandwich recipe (well, not mine, actually, it was published in Cook’s Illustrated), so I decided to kill two birds with one stone. Lucy said she liked it – I decided not to ask whether it was the poem, or the recipe, that she liked.
Apologies for the extra syllables – rules are made to be broken.