Stretch Cooking: Tuna casserole, eventually
There was a time, before I was married or knew how to cook, that I ate a lot of chili with rice. It was pretty simple. Boil a cup of rice – I learned how to do that – and when it was ready, open a can of chili (preferably Wolf Brand, no beans), and dump it in the pan with the rice, add a handful of chopped onion, stir it all together, and let it heat until the chili was steaming.
It was good, it was cheap, it was easy, and it was filling. I am starting to crave some right now. I haven’t had it in years. It carries a whiff of kid stigma, like slicing up hotdogs in macaroni and cheese, as my son Tyler used to do. Maybe still does. But then if somebody asks him, “What did you have for dinner last night,” and he says, “Hot dogs sliced into macaroni and cheese,” the person will say, “What are you, a college kid?”
Same way with chili and rice. It’s just not something a grown man would naturally do. “What did you have for dinner last night?” “Chili and rice.” “And you can get a woman to live with you?” On the other hand, if I say, “Frito Pie,” the person may say, “Oh, how interesting.” So I’m interesting if I mix together a bag of Fritos, a can of chili, and some onions, and heat that until the chips are nice and mushy, and eat that, whereas if it’s rice, I’m a slob. Such is the unaccountability of stigma.
It must be the rice. When I announce that I am going to make tuna casserole, and 10 people hear me, eight of them will think I am going to make it with egg noodles. Rice needs a council or something, to lobby for its status. Maybe it’s because of all the instant rice on the shelves, a Rice-a-Roni onus. I happen to like most Rice-a-Ronis, but I would never make chili and rice with it. Nor would I make chili and rice with noodles. The flavors that rice picks up (and, with its chewiness, incorporates into every bite) just slide off of noodles.
But I’m not here to talk about rice stigma; I’m here to talk about the merits of tuna casserole in a stretch cooking repertoire. Tuna casserole has established itself as the best way to stretch cans of tuna and bags of potato chips. Typically, in the chip drawer, a day will come when there are a couple of bags of potato chips, each down to their last handful, which are sort of stale. That is the time to make tuna casserole.
Following instructions on the bag, boil a cup (dry) of rice. In a large saucepan, heat together a can of cream of mushroom soup and a can of cream of chicken soup. Add to the soup a small can of button mushrooms, a small can of tiny green peas, and two cans of light tuna. You can use albacore, but that is like putting tenderloin in Hamburger Helper, if you are one who likes Hamburger Helper.
Add the cooked rice to the soup. Season to taste with black pepper and garlic powder. Stir until the ingredients are mixed, then pour the mixture into a casserole dish that has been lightly oiled. Some people like a deep dish, others a shallow one; I favor the shallow because there’s more acreage for the potato chips. Sprinkle the casserole with grated cheddar. Roll up the bags tight to crush the chips, then sprinkle them on top. Bake at 350 for 25 minutes.
Next day, if asked what you had for dinner, say, “Tuna Casserole.” And if you can’t resist, add, “With rice.”
It was good, it was cheap, it was easy, and it was filling. I am starting to crave some right now. I haven’t had it in years. It carries a whiff of kid stigma, like slicing up hotdogs in macaroni and cheese, as my son Tyler used to do. Maybe still does. But then if somebody asks him, “What did you have for dinner last night,” and he says, “Hot dogs sliced into macaroni and cheese,” the person will say, “What are you, a college kid?”
Same way with chili and rice. It’s just not something a grown man would naturally do. “What did you have for dinner last night?” “Chili and rice.” “And you can get a woman to live with you?” On the other hand, if I say, “Frito Pie,” the person may say, “Oh, how interesting.” So I’m interesting if I mix together a bag of Fritos, a can of chili, and some onions, and heat that until the chips are nice and mushy, and eat that, whereas if it’s rice, I’m a slob. Such is the unaccountability of stigma.
It must be the rice. When I announce that I am going to make tuna casserole, and 10 people hear me, eight of them will think I am going to make it with egg noodles. Rice needs a council or something, to lobby for its status. Maybe it’s because of all the instant rice on the shelves, a Rice-a-Roni onus. I happen to like most Rice-a-Ronis, but I would never make chili and rice with it. Nor would I make chili and rice with noodles. The flavors that rice picks up (and, with its chewiness, incorporates into every bite) just slide off of noodles.
But I’m not here to talk about rice stigma; I’m here to talk about the merits of tuna casserole in a stretch cooking repertoire. Tuna casserole has established itself as the best way to stretch cans of tuna and bags of potato chips. Typically, in the chip drawer, a day will come when there are a couple of bags of potato chips, each down to their last handful, which are sort of stale. That is the time to make tuna casserole.
Following instructions on the bag, boil a cup (dry) of rice. In a large saucepan, heat together a can of cream of mushroom soup and a can of cream of chicken soup. Add to the soup a small can of button mushrooms, a small can of tiny green peas, and two cans of light tuna. You can use albacore, but that is like putting tenderloin in Hamburger Helper, if you are one who likes Hamburger Helper.
Add the cooked rice to the soup. Season to taste with black pepper and garlic powder. Stir until the ingredients are mixed, then pour the mixture into a casserole dish that has been lightly oiled. Some people like a deep dish, others a shallow one; I favor the shallow because there’s more acreage for the potato chips. Sprinkle the casserole with grated cheddar. Roll up the bags tight to crush the chips, then sprinkle them on top. Bake at 350 for 25 minutes.
Next day, if asked what you had for dinner, say, “Tuna Casserole.” And if you can’t resist, add, “With rice.”
Labels: Stretch Cooking
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