Mediterranean Tuna Salad

The tomatoes are setting fruit. Jack's Beefsteak plants have small green tomatoes forming on the vines, and he reported this to me with the solemnity of a man announcing the birth of his child. "Mom, there are tomatoes." I said, "I see them." He said, "Real tomatoes." I said, "Yes, real tomatoes." He said, "From the dirt." I said, "That's where they come from." He looked at me like I didn't understand the magnitude of what had happened, and maybe I didn't, because for Jack this is the first time he's watched a seed become food, and for me it's been happening my whole life and I've let the miracle become ordinary. He reminded me it's not ordinary. It's never ordinary.

Work was heavy this week. Three assessments, all bad news. A grain operation near Ames that's underwater on loans. A soybean farm in Hardin County where the wife cried at the kitchen table. A young farmer outside of Marshalltown — the same one I assessed last year — who asked me, quietly, if I thought he should sell. I told him I couldn't advise him on that. He said, "But you know." I said yes. I know. I know what it costs to hold on and I know what it costs to let go and neither one is free.

I came home from that assessment and made comfort food: tuna noodle casserole. I know I said the kids hate it. They do. I made it for me. Sometimes the cook needs to eat the food that comforts the cook, and tuna noodle casserole comforts me because it's Marlene's recipe and it tastes like the farm kitchen and it tastes like being small and safe and fed. The kids ate cereal. Kevin ate the casserole with me and said nothing about it being good or bad, just ate it, which is the kindest thing he could have done.

The backyard corn is six inches tall. The green beans have sprouted. The sunflowers are pushing up. Jack's garden is a small miracle of planning and patience, and every evening after dinner he walks the rows like a farmer checking his fields — hands behind his back, eyes on the plants, moving slowly. He learned this from Roger. Roger learned it from his father. The posture of inspection. The walk of a man who grows things. Jack is six and he has this walk. It doesn't fit his body yet. It will.

Marlene’s tuna noodle casserole is what I made that night, and I’ll always make it when the work gets that heavy — but on the nights I want the tuna without the hour in the oven, this Mediterranean tuna salad is where I land. It has the same anchoring quality: simple, honest food that doesn’t ask anything of you except to sit down and eat it. Kevin would eat this one too, and he wouldn’t say a word about it, and that’s exactly right.

Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 15 minutes | Servings: 4

Ingredients

2 cans (5 oz each) tuna packed in olive oil, drained
1 English cucumber, diced
1 cup cherry tomatoes, halved
1/2 cup Kalamata olives, pitted and halved
1/4 red onion, thinly sliced
1/2 cup crumbled feta cheese
1/4 cup fresh flat-leaf parsley, roughly chopped
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice (about 1 lemon)
1 teaspoon dried oregano
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
Salt to taste

Instructions

Prep the vegetables. Dice the cucumber into 1/2-inch pieces, halve the cherry tomatoes, slice the red onion thin, and halve the olives. Add everything to a large mixing bowl.
Add the tuna. Drain the tuna well and break it into the bowl in large flakes — don’t over-mix; you want texture, not paste.
Make the dressing. In a small bowl or jar, whisk together the olive oil, lemon juice, dried oregano, and black pepper until combined.
Dress and toss. Pour the dressing over the salad and toss gently to combine. Scatter the feta and parsley over the top. Taste and add salt if needed (the olives and feta carry salt, so go easy at first).
Serve. Eat immediately over greens, scooped onto warm pita, or straight from the bowl with a fork. Leftovers keep covered in the refrigerator for up to 2 days; hold the dressing if making ahead.

Nutrition (per serving)

Mediterranean Tuna Salad — The Tuna That Brings Me Back to Myself