I was not raised in a typical American household. My mother is a trained cook, and while she never went professional, her ability to replicate restaurant dishes from one taste is frankly uncanny. As such, I was raised with a revolving door of meal options for dinner. An invitation to my table was always coveted by my friends, where they could come and watch my Jackie O. mother: jet black bouffant, huge dark sunglasses, brick red lipstick, black ballet flats before they were cool, French scarves arranged just so. She looked about twenty-five. She still claims to be, which will be awkward when I become older than her in less than five years.
When I watch those cooking shows like Sandra Lee or that woman who makes five meals out of three ingredients, I’m frankly confused. My mother ran schedules for four children (five, if you, like my mother, count my father as one) and still managed to get a gourmet dinner on the table every evening. I don’t quite get those microwavable meals: we used to get Birds Eye green beans and spaetzle in pesto, but only because my father and I whined and complained until she bought it. She makes her own creamed onions. A woman who makes her own creamed onions is not ever going to make you eat Manwich, Hamburger Helper, Rice-a-Roni, or tuna casserole.
The only casserole I’ve ever had is lasagna, which I don’t really count as a casserole anyway, because it’s lasagna. So you can imagine my surprise when the Canadian, hungry one afternoon when I had already put away a delicious panini, asked for tuna casserole.
OK, to be fair, he didn’t actually pronounce those words. What he asked for was pasta with “maybe some tuna, mayo and cheese.” I looked at him like he was insane until he validated his request by saying that it was “tuna-casserole-ish,” which didn’t really validate it at all in my mind. I was still standing there asking myself how the boy who wanted his last meal on earth to be a seared ahi-tuna steak could possibly be sitting on my couch in shorts and a bucket hat from Mallorca asking me to make him tuna casserole.
But I was up for the challenge. Into the kitchen I went, trying to think how in the world I was going to pull off something that actually tasted good.
First of all, I didn’t have any mayonnaise. At home, we always have Hellman’s, but I only eat it on turkey sandwiches, and the French aren’t too keen on turkey sandwiches (they eat a lot of ham), so I have mustard as a standard, and no mayo. No problem, I’ll just borrow from carbonara and mix some egg yolk with olive oil to make a barely cooked sauce at the end. Now the problem was cheese: he didn’t want a cheese sauce, he wanted the cheese melted in. But cheese melted in always gets all globby and nasty and I wouldn’t stand for that. So I grated the parmesan into the egg and oil mixture and mixed it around. When the pasta came out, I started adding the egg mixture, stirring and watching as it became a thick, creamy sauce (I always think that’s like magic, no matter how many times I do it). Newly confident, I added the tuna and some black pepper and gave it a taste.
The verdict? Tuna casserole is weird. The Canadian is weird. But he liked it: he even asked me to make it again a few days ago, which is good, because the first time I was so bewildered that I forgot to take a picture, and I wasn’t able to share this very interesting bit of Americana with you. So there you have it: a recipe for Tuna Casserole-ish. If you grew up with tuna casserole, like the Canadian, you might like it. As for me, I’m going to stick with the ahi… the whole cheese and tuna thing just isn’t doing it for me.
Tuna Casserole-ish
Cook enough pasta for two people (or one Canadian) in a large pot of salted water. I like rigatoni or even penne. While the pasta is cooking, combine one egg yolk with about a tablespoon (maybe two) of good olive oil, pepper, and a couple of tablespoons of grated parmesan cheese (to taste). When the pasta is cooked, drain it, reserving a little bit of the pasta water. Turn off the heat and return the pasta to the pot. Using your wooden spoon, add a little bit of the egg, oil, cheese mixture at a time, stirring to combine and making sure that the egg doesn’t curdle. The sauce should thicken to a creamy consistency. When all of the sauce is added, break in one small can of tuna with a fork. Mix to combine. If the sauce seems too thick, you can thin it out with some of the pasta water. Serve with extra cheese on the side. Serves two normal people or one very hungry Canadian.
