Tuna Noodle Casserole
I made tuna noodle casserole the evening before Thanksgiving. I indulge myself my favorite dishes when the kids are with Mike. I love tuna noodle casserole. Never a favorite with my family, I save it for these weeknight nights alone. It was the first thing I learned to make in college and it was love at first bite. I've used the same recipe now for 25 years, tweaking it here in there for interest--switch out Parmesan for cheddar, switch out peas for mushrooms, rotini for egg noodles, but the sticky matrix of tuna and roux remains the same, is the essence of tuna noodle, and drives me wild. I could bathe in it and lick it off my arms and legs if my stiff runner self could reach. I never get tired of it. I thought of my undying love for tuna noodle casserole as I ate it alone in my galley kitchen off the old lady gold rimmed dishes I pilfered from the house. I thought how I'd really come full circle from my college days eating tuna noodle casserole before I even laid eyes on the man that was to be my husband for the next 20 years, to this point, 25 years later, sitting in a kitchen almost as pathetic as the one I shared with three other girls in 1985, puzzling now how to unravel our 20 plus years with minimal grief.
On Thanksgiving Day, I made it to my sister's palatial home on time for her elegant Thanksgiving sprawl. Mike was coming, but driving separately since he's leaving earlier than I am. I couldn't stop smiling, smug in my expert efficiency to pack up the kids and hit the road by 10AM. I was going to be on time since I didn't have to wait for Mike. I was always waiting on Mike. He moves to the beat of a very slow drummer. I called ahead to my sister and demanded she take note of my timeliness, that the reason I've been late in the past is my lallygagging husband. I thought of my friends, Bob and Debi and others that were undoubtedly happily milling about after the Home Run for Homeless. They had a perfect sunny but frigid day for the run. I was really missing the run but there was my sister's incredible food to look forward to and I would be on time and not suffer invisible guilt barbs.
Every time I set foot in my sister's house, I'm a bit dazed and dazzled by the grandness of her home. And not that it's just beautiful, it's as though my sister crawled into my brain and took a snapshot of my personal House Beautiful fantasy--she has the same taste in colors, rich yellows, terracotta, and browns and layout that I do. If I had the patience, the means, and the wherewithal to have beautiful things--they would look like this. As close sisters, we are so much alike--we look and sound alike, but I'm the wild redheaded one that bears the family strain of mental illness--a proclivity to addictions, obsessions, emotional outbursts, Tourette's like fits of swearing when hurt or surprised, fetishes, etc--it's an exhausting list. I'm fairly comfortable with my place in life--most of the time, except when I visit my sister. Then the contrast between her upwardly progressive life of fulfillment, leisure, and happiness and my life--a winding game of Candy Land with more backward moves than forward ones, blatant backslides into the molasses swamp, and more than one instance of losing my turn while everyone else advanced forward. I know it's my fault that this is the way things are. I don't blame anybody but myself--maybe God sometimes, for making me so emotionally raw. It's like I'm not done.
I would never tell my sister this--that I'm jealous of how easy things come to her. She's a wonderful and gracious hostess. My smugness for getting to her house on time was mitigated by forgetting to pack the families toothbrushes. We went to bed with furry teeth cause a toothpasted finger and floss just doesn't get it. I'm confident she'll be too busy erecting miles of natural garland in her beautiful house to check in on my blog--that's what I'm hoping anyway.
Sometimes I wonder if this is why my marriage has failed. It's me. I wouldn't have lasting love with anybody because there is always me to get in the way. But then I think of tuna noodle casserole. I love tuna noodle casserole--loved it for 25 years and I never get tired of it and tuna noodle keeps pleasing me too. The man I love must be like tuna noodle casserole.
I made tuna noodle casserole the evening before Thanksgiving. I indulge myself my favorite dishes when the kids are with Mike. I love tuna noodle casserole. Never a favorite with my family, I save it for these weeknight nights alone. It was the first thing I learned to make in college and it was love at first bite. I've used the same recipe now for 25 years, tweaking it here in there for interest--switch out Parmesan for cheddar, switch out peas for mushrooms, rotini for egg noodles, but the sticky matrix of tuna and roux remains the same, is the essence of tuna noodle, and drives me wild. I could bathe in it and lick it off my arms and legs if my stiff runner self could reach. I never get tired of it. I thought of my undying love for tuna noodle casserole as I ate it alone in my galley kitchen off the old lady gold rimmed dishes I pilfered from the house. I thought how I'd really come full circle from my college days eating tuna noodle casserole before I even laid eyes on the man that was to be my husband for the next 20 years, to this point, 25 years later, sitting in a kitchen almost as pathetic as the one I shared with three other girls in 1985, puzzling now how to unravel our 20 plus years with minimal grief.
On Thanksgiving Day, I made it to my sister's palatial home on time for her elegant Thanksgiving sprawl. Mike was coming, but driving separately since he's leaving earlier than I am. I couldn't stop smiling, smug in my expert efficiency to pack up the kids and hit the road by 10AM. I was going to be on time since I didn't have to wait for Mike. I was always waiting on Mike. He moves to the beat of a very slow drummer. I called ahead to my sister and demanded she take note of my timeliness, that the reason I've been late in the past is my lallygagging husband. I thought of my friends, Bob and Debi and others that were undoubtedly happily milling about after the Home Run for Homeless. They had a perfect sunny but frigid day for the run. I was really missing the run but there was my sister's incredible food to look forward to and I would be on time and not suffer invisible guilt barbs.
Every time I set foot in my sister's house, I'm a bit dazed and dazzled by the grandness of her home. And not that it's just beautiful, it's as though my sister crawled into my brain and took a snapshot of my personal House Beautiful fantasy--she has the same taste in colors, rich yellows, terracotta, and browns and layout that I do. If I had the patience, the means, and the wherewithal to have beautiful things--they would look like this. As close sisters, we are so much alike--we look and sound alike, but I'm the wild redheaded one that bears the family strain of mental illness--a proclivity to addictions, obsessions, emotional outbursts, Tourette's like fits of swearing when hurt or surprised, fetishes, etc--it's an exhausting list. I'm fairly comfortable with my place in life--most of the time, except when I visit my sister. Then the contrast between her upwardly progressive life of fulfillment, leisure, and happiness and my life--a winding game of Candy Land with more backward moves than forward ones, blatant backslides into the molasses swamp, and more than one instance of losing my turn while everyone else advanced forward. I know it's my fault that this is the way things are. I don't blame anybody but myself--maybe God sometimes, for making me so emotionally raw. It's like I'm not done.
I would never tell my sister this--that I'm jealous of how easy things come to her. She's a wonderful and gracious hostess. My smugness for getting to her house on time was mitigated by forgetting to pack the families toothbrushes. We went to bed with furry teeth cause a toothpasted finger and floss just doesn't get it. I'm confident she'll be too busy erecting miles of natural garland in her beautiful house to check in on my blog--that's what I'm hoping anyway.
Sometimes I wonder if this is why my marriage has failed. It's me. I wouldn't have lasting love with anybody because there is always me to get in the way. But then I think of tuna noodle casserole. I love tuna noodle casserole--loved it for 25 years and I never get tired of it and tuna noodle keeps pleasing me too. The man I love must be like tuna noodle casserole.