Oh, I do enjoy a good tuna fish sandwich.
On a roll.
On bread.
White bread.  Wheat bread.  Makes no difference.
Heck, balance it gently in a scoop on top of a salad and call it “low carb” if that makes you feel responsible.

But let’s be honest.
It’s a sandwich.  Not a wrap.
That’s its destiny.

And yes…
I prefer make it myself.

Because I know what I like.
I don’t need instructions.
I don’t need a focus group.
I don’t need a celebrity chef whispering aioli affirmations into my ear while torching something unnecessarily.

I need tuna.

A tad of mustard.
Not a glob.
Not a statement.
A tad.
Mustard should be a supporting actor. Not the lead villain.

Celery chopped small.
Not “rustic.”
Small.
If I wanted rustic, I’d go chew on a fence post.
I want crunch.
Precise crunch.
Engineering-level crunch.

And onion.

Now listen closely.

On most sandwiches?
White onion.
Crisp.
Polite.
Knows how to behave in public.
Would return your shopping cart.

But in tuna fish?

Yellow onion.

Why?

Because it has bite.
Just enough attitude to say, “I’m here too.”
It doesn’t overpower.
It doesn’t apologize.
It doesn’t send a follow-up email.
It shows up. Does its job. Leaves.

That’s a sandwich with character.

Now don’t get me wrong.
I enjoy other sandwiches.

A good ham and Swiss?
Absolutely.
Put it on rye and we might exchange Christmas cards.

But here’s what’s been bothering me —
And I need answers.

If it’s called a “tuna fish sandwich”…
Why isn’t it a “ham pig sandwich”?

Hmm?

We feel the need to clarify that tuna is, in fact, a fish.
As if someone out there thought it was a small ocean squirrel.

But ham?
No clarification.
No species acknowledgment.
No respect.

We don’t say “pig ham sandwich.”
We don’t say “cow beef burger.”
We rarely say “beef steak sandwich.”
It’s just “steak.”
Like we all signed the livestock waiver already.

But tuna?
Nope.
Tuna has to show ID every single time.

Why are we singling tuna out?

Is it because “tuna sandwich” sounds too efficient?
Too confident?
Too sleek?

Or did someone, somewhere, once say,
“We better clarify this before Earl thinks it’s chicken again.”

And now we’re stuck with it.

These are the thoughts that visit me
while I’m spreading mayo
with purpose
and chopping celery
like a man who has made peace with his choices.

Lettuce?
Sure.
Why not.
A crisp piece of iceberg.
Nothing dramatic.
No spring mix manifesto.
Just iceberg.
Dependable.
Cold.
Knows its lane.  Stays there.

Now let’s talk about “pork roll.”  This one does need clarification of origin.

We can’t just call it a roll.
Because then we’d be ordering a roll sandwich on a roll.
And that’s chaos.

Breakfast sandwiches are simple creatures:
Ham.
Sausage.
Bacon.
Pork roll.
Even scrapple.

All pork.
Standing proudly on their own.
No need to say “pork sausage” unless we’re worried about beef sneaking in wearing a disguise.

Now let’s talk about “pork roll.”  This one does need clarification of origin.

We can’t just call it a roll.
Because then we’d be ordering a roll sandwich on a roll.
And that’s chaos.

And that’s just odd.
Even for Earl.

If we’re going to label things —
Label everything.

Or…

Just label when clarity is required.

Let tuna be tuna.
Let ham carry its own paperwork.
Let mustard remain a tad.

And above all…

Let a man enjoy his tuna sandwich
without needing to present a marine biology certificate.

Sorry, Charlie.

• Ramblings