She's making tuna salad for lunch. When she opens the can, she pours the juice on a big plate and we all get to lick. Then we get to lick the empty can. It's a recipe she brought back from her sister in Texas, many years ago when I was still small and young.
I'm so busy licking the plate that I don't always see everything she puts into the tuna salad, but I can smell the sweet pickle relish, the mayonnaise, and the green olives. The poppy seed jar is on the counter. I saw her putting the sliced almonds back in the cabinet. The grater has carrot on it. I smell celery.
It seems a shame to do all that to a decent chunk of tuna, but there it is. This kitchen is not run in a logical manner.
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