Classic Tuna Salad

The insomnia is back. I don't want to write about it but I'm going to, because I promised myself I'd be honest here, and honest means the good weeks and the bad weeks, and this is a bad week. I haven't slept more than three hours a night since Monday. I lie in bed and listen. Listen for what? Water. I'm listening for water. It's been five months since the flood. It's January. It hasn't rained significantly in weeks. And I'm lying in bed at 2 AM, heart racing, listening for a sound that isn't there, because my body remembers what my brain is trying to forget.

Danielle knows. She always knows. She doesn't say "you need to see someone" — she's said it before, and I've deflected it before, and she knows that pushing doesn't work with me. She just adjusts. Makes extra coffee in the morning. Takes the kids to school so I can sleep an extra thirty minutes. Puts her hand on my back at night when I'm lying there staring at the ceiling. Doesn't say anything. Just the hand. Just the presence. Just "I'm here and you're not alone and the water isn't coming."

I worked through it. That's what I do — I work through things, because working means moving, and moving means not thinking, and not thinking means not listening for water. The Spanish Town house is coming along. Three-quarters rewired. The young couple, Mark and Sarah, brought me lunch on Thursday — po'boys from Cane's, which is not po'boys and I told them so (Cane's is chicken fingers, not po'boys, and the distinction matters), but I ate them because they were kind and because kindness matters more than culinary accuracy.

Made a seafood chowder on Thursday night. Thick, creamy, loaded with shrimp and potatoes and corn. A warm blanket in a bowl. I cooked it at 11 PM because I was awake anyway, and the act of cooking — the chopping, the stirring, the heat of the stove on my face — calmed the thing in my chest enough to let me sleep for four hours, which felt like a triumph. The chowder was good. It tasted like 2 AM and insomnia and a man who doesn't know how to be still but knows how to cook, and sometimes the cooking is the closest I get to still.

I called Mama on Sunday. Didn't tell her about the insomnia. She'd worry, and there's nothing she can do, and she's got enough to carry without carrying her son's broken sleep. She told me about the bayou — how the water is low this winter, how the egrets are back, how she saw an alligator sunning on the bank. She told me that Pierre came by to fix a fence post and stayed for coffee and said four words total. She told me she's making gumbo on Monday. "For who?" I asked. "For whoever needs it," she said. And I thought: I need it. I need gumbo and I need Mama and I need the cottage and I need to sleep. But you can't put those things in a pot. You can only put the roux in and stir and wait and hope that the stirring does what the sleeping won't.

The chowder that Thursday night was thick and warm and exactly what I needed, but I’ve made it so many times by feel that I couldn’t tell you where the recipe ends and the muscle memory begins. What I can give you is something simpler — the tuna salad I keep coming back to on the hard days, the kind you can make at any hour with whatever’s in the pantry, no stove required. It’s not a pot of gumbo, and it’s not Mama’s kitchen, but it’s steady and it’s good and sometimes steady and good is enough.

Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 0 min | Total Time: 10 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

2 cans (5 oz each) chunk light or solid white albacore tuna, drained well
1/3 cup mayonnaise
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
2 stalks celery, finely diced
2 tablespoons red onion, finely minced
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon lemon zest
1 tablespoon fresh dill, chopped (or 1 teaspoon dried)
Salt and black pepper to taste
Optional: 2 tablespoons sweet pickle relish

Instructions

Drain the tuna. Press each can firmly with the lid to remove as much liquid as possible, then turn into a medium mixing bowl and break apart any large chunks with a fork.
Mix the base. Add the mayonnaise and Dijon mustard to the tuna and stir until evenly combined. The texture should be creamy but not wet — add mayo a little at a time if you prefer a lighter coat.
Add the aromatics. Fold in the celery, red onion, lemon juice, lemon zest, and dill. If you like a slight sweetness, stir in the pickle relish here as well.
Season and rest. Taste and season with salt and pepper. For best flavor, cover the bowl and refrigerate for at least 15 minutes to let the ingredients come together, though it’s perfectly good eaten immediately if you can’t wait.
Serve. Pile onto toasted bread, crackers, a bed of greens, or eat it straight from the bowl standing at the counter at midnight. No judgment.

Nutrition (per serving)

Classic Tuna Salad — The Seafood That Got Me Through the Night