My mom was a lot of things. Smart, funny, caring, kind. But she wasn't a good cook. With twelve kids, it's no wonder. But one of the meals she made with regularity was tuna salad. I like to think she took out her daily frustration while she smashed the packed tuna with a fork or while she diced the eggs while trying to curb the chaos going on around her in our tiny yellow kitchen with the frilly curtains. But the reality was, tuna salad was practical. Canned tuna was a cheap, easy-to-fix, inexpensive meal. My tuna salad is nothing like mom's but every time I open a can, I'm reminded of her, and that's all that matters.