One of a miscellany of short observations from a trip to Scotland.
The sandwiches today are tuna with sweet corn.
The Lady of the house—literally, she being married to a Lord—is briefing us on today’s options. When our touring schedule takes us away from the house through the noon hour, kitchen staff put out a range of foodstuffs for build-your-own bag lunches. Cheese. Biscuits, savoury and sweet (the former better known to [North] American visitors as crackers, the latter as cookies). Hallowe’en-sized chocolate bars. Fresh fruit. And, of course, sandwiches.
The offering is much the same, one day to the next: what varies is the sandwich filling. There’s nothing too exotic: we’ve had ham and cheese, we’ve had mystery-meat pâté. But today’s announcement snaps my head up: Did I hear aright? Tuna with sweet corn?
Around me at the breakfast table I see others of our troupe looking sideways at each other, with some leaning in for quiet conversation. I’m thinking I’m not the only one who thought the Lady said, Tuna with sweet corn.
Sitting next to some Brits, I have access to local expertise. This is great, I think. I’ll find out what’s really in those sandwiches. Put to the question, however—What did She just say?—my neighbours look at me a little blankly.
Well, one answers hesitantly, tuna with sweet corn. The other nods emphatically. Their Why do you ask? is obvious, if not quite stated.
When I explain that I’ve never heard tell of this combination, the blank looks change to odd ones.
Fast forward a few hours, and I am munching a tuna sandwich flecked with little yellow kernels of corn. It’s not an offensive combination, but neither is it remarkably apt. Not like, say, tuna and green onion. Now that’s a combination that makes perfect sense.