Every childhood summer, we piled into our minivan and drove up to the mountains to pitch a tent and escape humanity for a while. Sometimes family friends joined in, and we all swam in the lake, cooked burgers in the fire, and munched on gooey s’mores.
But everyone loved hiking the most. Mom packed a backpack with all sorts of fruit gummies and peanut butter crackers and granola bars, and we stopped in the shade to sit on boulders and enjoy the snacks.
One girl always begged her dad to bring a can of tuna. While the briny fish smell repulsed my brother and me, she peeled back the lid and happily ate the fish plain or with a bit of mayo using her little fold-up spork.
Within the last year or two, I finally picked up my first can of tuna from the grocery store and gave it a chance. Although not quite love at first bite, it did grow on me, and I realized just how convenient it is to crack open the lid when I don’t have a stove, like back on those dusty trails. Or simply when I don’t want to cook.