A Month of Giving Thanks: Nov.9 NPR

To read about why I’m spending a month Giving Thanks, Click Here

I grew up listening to NPR; I have vivid memories of listening to Car Talk on the stereo in the kitchen on Saturday mornings while I played with my Legos in the living room. Morning Edition was always on the car radio as my dad gave me a ride to school in high school.

He told me I could pick the channel as soon as I was driving, but as long as Dad was driving, we were listening to KPLU’s NPR. It was good for me, he said.

…I hated it.

In college, though, I changed my mind.  For the final 150 miles on the long drive cross-state from home to school, NPR was the only channel available on the radio the entire time….the similarity in forced-NPR listening while being driven to school as a minor and driving myself to college as an adult was not lost on me. Maybe it was good for me.

Public radio is, of course, No.44 on the list of Stuff White People Like . For good reason. It is awesome.  As awesome, if not more awesome than  Seasalt, Yoga, and Ugly Sweater Parties.

My junior year at WSU I began working evenings at Northwest Public Radio. I was a local host and break producer in the evenings on Thursdays, Fridays and Sundays–and nearly every other shift I could get my hands on. I pre-recorded breaks for Car Talk and other shows that aired on the weekends and overnight.

It was there that I was introduced to Fresh Air, Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me, On the Media, Marketplace, and, my favorite, This American Life. Before Logan was born, Matt and I used to spend a decent amount of time going places and listening to NPR. Infact, it was the only thing I disliked about our home on Taylor Street–the Boise State public radio programing never came in well on the radio there. So we downloaded This American Life on to my iPod and would listen to Ira Glass for the 3 mile round-trip walk to and from work at the college every day. Ira goes with me on all trips by plane, too.

After graduating, I found myself alone in a news vehicle…a lot. Driving all over Idaho to conduct interviews and get b-roll, I spent a lot of time listening to NPR. That was fine by me. I got to know Zorba Paster, Tavis Smiley (no relation), The Splendid Table and Matt’s and my favorite at the time (now dead, RIP) Calling All Pets. What was most profound about that time for me, though, was working in commercial news while listening to public media taught me a lot about the role advertising does play in content, angle and story placement–even though it is illegal. Public broadcasting, however, doesn’t rely on commercials to stay afloat. Certainly there is underwriting. but the space is limmitted and the sponsors and contributors are not attempting to influence the content of Morning Edition…the same can not be said for local TV news.

There are so many public broadcasting shows I enjoy; far more public media and commercial media. The only one I don’t like is still where the women are strong, the men are good-looking and all the kids are above-average.

What I think is especially fantastic is that I can and take NPR and PRI and BBC with me each time I move. I don’t have to pack it, I don’t have to wrap it carefully in bubble wrap and then wonder which freakin’ box it got stuffed in to. Its is just there, waiting for me when I arrive. In a year that has seen a lot of change and unfamiliarity, it is so nice to have the same background noise in the kitchen. Today, our local station is the famed WAMU, home to public radio icon Diane Rehm and Kojo Nnamdi . Not bad, hu?

New Tab

So tonight I’m adding a new tab called, “who the eff did I marry”?

More to come…

A Month of Giving Thanks: Nov.8– Oolong Tea

Calming, soothing, warm. Oolong tea is like my drug.  I call it “the stuff”. I has the ability to make me feel warm and full from the inside in a way I’ve never heard any one else describe.Its like a little cup of all that is good in the universe.

I buy it off asian restaurants by the pack of 500 or so. Once a student brought me a pack from the dinner place she worked at. The stuff from the grocery store never, ever tastes as good.

A hot mug of Oolong is contemplative; a hot cup of Oolong is gratitude for another day lived.

I am thankful to have a few bags of Oolong tucked away in the pantry. I am lucky like that.

 

 

A Month of Giving Thanks: Nov. 7: A Home Made of Giving Trees

This is a post I wrote more than a year ago when I returned to Idaho, sans family, to my home. I miss that home every day, but I’m thankful I had it when I needed it the most. Maybe it is odd, but I seriously dream about returning to it, buying it back in a few years, when I am able to. I am blessed to have loved, and been loved by, a home. Truly, few people can claim that.

This post originally published on vox

I spent a lot of this summer learning about myself in a tiny 2-bedroom apartment with unreliable AC. I hated the humidity of Virginia, the bugs of living on a man-made lake that one isn’t allowed to swim in, and the thin walls of condo life. Even more, I hated knowing that if I could hear my neighbors, they most certainly could hear me.

Logan decided to stay back east with his dad, so I returned home alone. Equally conflicted with guilt for being happy about my freedom, and remorse for missing my guys, I dived right in to Cleaning and Organizing Therapy. It was then I realized that I not only love my house in Idaho, my house loves me, too.

The 2800 sf place had been closed up for three months; the only people inside were my dear friend and neighbor to water the plants, and my Dad who stayed over for a week so he could see my brothers down the street. Even though someone had left trash in the kitchen garbage, the house was in good shape. My Dad and girlfriend had tidied up the place for me. Still, the symbolism wasn’t lost on me; I’d felt closed up for three months, too. Aside from the bare-bones attention I gave myself, my soul felt neglected and forgotten.

So I started in the living room, the first room you come to. I emptied the book shelves, rearranged furniture, dumped drawers, baskets and cupboards.  I removed stray nails from the walls, hung up lonely artwork that had been waiting for a home, and made a list of the things I needed to finish the job: a hammer to put new nails in the walls; files and tabs for organizing financial documents; leather garden gloves to prune the rose bushes and remove over grown weeds…

I made a trip to Target to get these things and, somehow, tried to use an old credit card that ended up being declined.  Unhappy, I returned home without my things and started cleaning even more, venting my frustrations by throwing out matchless socks, broken toys and puzzels without all their pieces. Then, I found a hammer.

I was pleased that the house held the hammer; I hung up a candle holder that had been in a box since I bought it in January.

I then went downstairs and decided to clean out my closet before unpacking my suitcases. While sorting through old clothes and laundry, I found brand-new leather gardening gloves I’d appearently bought a year earlier. One less thing I needed to buy.

I used the gloves to go to the garden and cut some roses for the house. While out there, I noticed several volunteer sunflowers–my favorite. It was as if my house knew what I liked and wanted to provide it for me.

While in the garden, I weeded, and weeded, and weeded, uncovering many volunteer veggies and plants that had somehow–without any help from anyone this summer–made it. I picked blueberries,strawberries, raspberries, rhubarb and cucumbers. My beans are coming in, too, and there were carrots and lettuce and onions hiding under the long grass and weeds. It really felt like I was being welcomed home by my own home.

“Hooray! Candace is Back! Here, have some of your favorite fruit and flowers! We’ve been waiting for you!” I swear it said through its tiny harvest. “we knew you’d come back; we’ve been saving this just for you.”

Once it was finally too dark to dig anymore, I came in my home, mud on my shoes, thorns in my dress, pieces of leaves in my hair. I was home, I was dirty,  I was happy.

I took a shower and put on my Pjs. I dumped out a few random drawers and baskets. While going through my old purses, I found five used coffee punch cards, (“oh, you shouldn’t have! How’d you know I’d love some free coffee at my favorite cafe?”) and those file folders and tabs I was in need of. They were right there, in a purse I hadn’t touched in months.

The most unusual part was when I found a $20 bill. It was exactly what I needed since we were beyond stretched for cash (and still are, after some miscalculations in the checking account). $20 bought me the peace of mind I needed, knowing I could buy a few gallons of gas, or groceries, or alcohol–whatever the emergency may be.
I’m awed by the strange relationship I have with my house, almost as if it was built from a forest of Giving Trees. I really do feel like it loves me back. Sure, it can al be explained away, but really, it is a nice, comforting feeling to know everything I need is right here. Now if only the house would give me my diamond earring…

A Month of Giving Thanks: Nov.6: Dirty Money

Ever since I was little, I’ve been picking up money I find on the ground. And every time I do, this little rhyme plays in my head:

“find a penny

pick it up!

and all day,

you’ll have good luck!”

Matt is totally disgusted by this. “It’s Dirty!” he says….as if money from some place else is any cleaner.

Lucky for me and my Dirty Money collection we don’t have a car…so there are a lot opportunities to add to it: We pass over four miles worth of sidewalks and parking lots on a daily basis. The 7-11 parking lot is always offering up quarters and sometimes dollar bills. Drive-thrus, after closing, usually have a dollar in change. Over the last eight months or so, my Dirty Money has added up to about $30.

$30, it just so happens, is enough to buy a box of trash bags, a 6-pack of romaine lettuce, a 6lb bag of bosc pairs, and a rotissare chicken for dinner.  It also could have added up to a whole month’s worth of school lunches for my son.

So today I’m thankful for all the folks that have dropped a coin, or dollar, on the sidewalk. And I’m thankful to all the other folks who think its “too dirty” to pick up. You made my day; you made my family’s dinner. Thanks.

A Month of Giving Thanks: Nov.5–Shovlin’ Teeth

I grew up thinking I was white. Like, white-white. Like, white-white with a cycle of bleach thrown in. But actually I was only as white as my teeth. Which, it turns out, aren’t white at all…

When I was a junior in college I shrank my retainer after trying to clean it in too-hot water. I was going to school to be a TV reporter, so I was obsessed with my newly-straightened teeth. I was scared they would move back to their crooked positions before I could find the time to go cross-state and see my orthodontist for a new retainer.

So my mom found an orthodontist in Pullman, Wash. who could see me the next day. He was retired, but he’d run his office out of his home, and still had all his supplies. So he agreed to this one-time visit.

While he was examining me, taking the mould of my mouth, he told me I wasn’t white.

“what are you?” he asked me.

“uh, what do you mean?” I asked. I mean, what kind of a question IS that?

“You’ve got Shovelin’ Teeth, and I’ve only seen those in Engines and some Asians, And you’re Not Asian.”

“Well, I’m white. I glow-in-the-dark!” I nervously joked.

“No you’re not” he said. “You’re Indian.”

So as soon as I got out of there, I called my mom and told her. She thought it was strange, too…but then she decided to ask my Dad’s Dad about where exactly he was from.

My Dad’s Dad, Papa Jack, was adopted. During the depression. His parents gave him, and his brother, up for adoption because they couldn’t feed them. He was about my son’s age when he was given up, never to see his Mom or Dad again. I can’t imagine the pain they must have felt giving up their two kids in hopes that strangers would be able to feed and clothe them because they couldn’t.

Jack had fair skin; he could pass for white. So his parents told him to lie, they wrote on his adoption papers that he was caucasian, knowing that if they said the truth he’d never find a family. Not in the depression. Not in Idaho.

So the secret began, and continued, his entire life. He was so fearful, so ashamed, he didn’t even tell his kids. Or Grandkids who, ironically, would have benefitted from that heritage through grants and financial aid for education.

When my mom asked my grandfather about his heritage, he began to tell her a little about life on a reservation, but he quickly shut up and refused to talk much more. Not much later, he passed away, taking his memories and the truth with him.

So I am thankful to have met the orthodontist who knew what he was looking at, wasn’t afraid to speak in a politically incorrect way, and was able to shine a light on a deep family secret. Without that random encounter, I would still have no idea about where I actually come from.

A Month of Giving Thanks: Nov.4–Love. Part 2.

Bud and my sister, A. It looks like a bottle of booz in his pocket, doesn't it (its actually a flashlight)? He is a total Pimp.

To read about why I’m spending an entire month Giving Thanks, Click HERE

When I was 5, my grandfather passed away. When I was 9, my grandmother married Bud.

Bud has made the last 20 years some of the best for my Grandma. They go dancing. They travel. They tell dirty jokes and they laugh REALLY hard. They enjoy every minute of it. He kisses my grandma like he means it, he treats her like a lady and he makes her feel special. I am so thankful that they found eachother; that Grandma got to spend her golden years madly inlove like a teenager, instead of as a lonely widow. Bud, too. His first wife passed away of cancer about 25 years ago. I know both of them adored their first spouses, but I also think their first spouses would be so happy to know how happy Grandma and Bud have been together. Some people say you can only have one great love in your life, but I think Grandma and Bud prove that wrong.

They’ve been married longer than most people’s first marriages.Twenty years. Isn’t that inspiring?

About a year or two after they got married, they got eachother rings for their “50th” anniversary. Both had been married over 40 years to their first spouses and they’d come up with some kind of equation to determine when each of them had been married for 50 years total, albeit to different people. They knew they’d never make it to 50 together, so they found a way to honor their late spouses as well as their new marriage. I love that.

Tonight, Bud is being made comfortable in a hospice room. It is sudden; he was healthy just a few days ago, but they say he has hours left. I am deeply sad for the impending loss to my Grandma and my extended family, but also deeply grateful that he became a part of our family when he did.

For a long time I thought Bud was lucky to have us–the big, extended, close-knit family. He didn’t have a family of his own. He had twin boys and a daughter who had died in childhood. Then his wife died. Then one of his twin sons died in a sad and sudden fire that took his and his new wife’s life. All he had left was a single son who didn’t want to be close. After so much loss, I can kind of understand that desire to preserve, and to pull away.

But Bud had so much love to give. So many stories to tell. So much wisdom to share about relationships, cars, dance steps and, of course, the war. Sure he was lucky to have us–but we were luckier to have him.

For a time I lived with him and Grandma and benefitted from his strict, old-fashionedness.  I learned that you can do more than email on a computer; you can also play solitaire.  I learned that families are what you make them, not just about blood. I learned a lot about respect, manners and simple courtesies–something I’m quite certain I never would have picked up on without his help.

For example, I’d never knocked on a bathroom door before entering to use it..until I opened a bathroom door on Bud. That image will forever remind me to knock. On all doors. Twice.

Bud has been an involved grandfather to 6 girls and 2 boys. At one of our first Thanksgiving Dinners with Bud, I made place-settings for all the family, drawing a flower bud on Bud’s name tag…because, he was, Bud. Grandma Jeanne got, what else, a pair of Jeans on her tag. I think most of the family just kind of smiled and ignored it, but Bud smiled big, laughed at the creativity, and told me it was a beautiful flower bud, and he was honored to have inspired such a piece of art. That, my friends, is the response of a true gentleman. He attended recitals, helped my brothers learn martial arts, and even went on road trips to visit us as we got older and moved away, having kids of our own. I regret, painfully, that I am unable to make that same kind of trip to see him one last time tonight. I have so much to thank him for.

So please whisper a prayer for Bud, for my grandmother, for all of us who love another deeply, that we may find peace when that moment comes that we have to say goodbye. That we can be thankful for the dances, the dirty jokes, the happiness we’ve had. And that the time apart will be richer for our time spent together.

Thank you, Bud. Thank you for making my Grandma so happy, for taking care of me when my parents wouldn’t, for loving my siblings and cousins as if we were your own grandchildren by blood. You have been an amazing grandfather, and we are so lucky to have had you as long as we have. I love you. We all do. And I hope you find rest and peace with your kids and first wife, and thank them for me for loaning you to us all these years. We are the lucky ones.

Update: Bud passed away at 6:30am Pacific Time this morning, Nov. 5, 2009. It was after my grandmother had spent the entire night with him, he waited for her to leave the room very briefly to die.

A Month of Giving Thanks: Nov.3–Letting Go

To read about why I’m spending a month Giving Thanks, Click Here

There’s Gotta Be More to Life than trying to hold on to everything. Every possession, every relationship, every grudge. There is nothing more liberating than just Letting Go, surrendering control, and moving onward and forward, without anything to hold you back. Whether it is a physical or emotional piece of baggage, it feels pretty great to get rid of it.

I’m in no way saying we should give up everything–but we should stop trying to hold on to everything. I’m not preaching a passive lifestyle, either: just knowing what we can and can’t control, and having the strength to both control what we can while letting go of what we can’t. And believe me, it is the latter that really takes the strength.

Just let it go.

Back in April when we returned to our Idaho home to pack up, I read a perfectly-timed article in the Oprah magazine (because, I’m quite certain, Oprah is spying on me and knows exactly what I need to hear, when I need to hear it). Martha Beck’s Article, “When and How to Say Enough!” said something along the lines of needing to “make room” for good things, by letting go of what you don’t really need. At a time when I was being forced to get rid of most of what I owned–moving cross-country from a 3,000 sq ft home to a barely 1,000 sq ft townhouse with zero storage–this was profound.

I needed to metaphorically, and actually, let go. Of everything. But I really, really didn’t want to.

None of this move was in my control; the idea of moving hadn’t been mine. The timing, too, was completely contrary to anything I wanted. I was letting go of my home, my friends, my career that I considered my calling. I was letting go of my life, a life I had worked very hard and long to have and that I adored with every cell in my body. I was letting go of my holiday dish collection, my toaster, my wedding dress. I was letting go of everything that wasn’t part of my being; even things I previously assumed were very much a part of who I was.

I was used to being in control, but faced a set of circumstances no one could have predicted. It robbed me of my ability to make my own choices about what I wanted. It took away any sense of control I had over my own life. It stole my ability to fulfill obligations, promises, responsibilities. It was debilitating to the core; humiliating at a level I’d never realized even existed outside of reality television.

It took me a little while to realize the pain was self-inflicted. It was because I refused to let go, holding on tight to a life that was over, fighting the changes that were coming whether I allowed them to or not.

The experience also taught me that taking control of everything isn’t what ultimately makes us happy. Letting go does. It frees our soul to gain more satisfying, worthwhile experiences by being present to receive them. Holding on to the past holds us back from being able to fully live in the present.

Once I stopped trying to fight it, stopped trying to hold on to my home, my stuff, my old life, I was able to finally be present in my new life, and accept the blessings that come with being present to receive them.

We as a culture have such a strong urge to hold on–just in case. We hold on to clothes that are too small because we hope to fit in them again. We hold on to more toys than our kids actually play with, more books than we actually read, more shoes than we actually wear. We also hold on to more grudges, fears and worries than we have use for.

But holding on only holds us back from being able to experience the moment. And that is truly all life is: a series of moments, not a series of things, and certainly not a series of things that need controlling.

How often do we need that bit of anxiety thinking of Random Person from Our Past gives us? Maybe back then it was useful (doubt it), but today it really isn’t. It’s like a 1980s Members Only Jacket–totally dated, totally useless. And wearing it shows how stuck in the past you really are. Letting go, then, is the only way to live your life in the present; live today instead of yesterday.

Beck’s article suggests letting go will not only simplify your life, it might save it (symbolically), too: “Simply by taking your attention off thoughts of scarcity and persistently focusing on observations of abundance, you can replace the nervous, just-in-case mind-set that kept our ancient forebears alive but is killing many of us.”

Letting Go has been the theme of 2009 for me. Not that it has been easy, it has been an enormous challenge. I’ve seen my existence go from obvious abundance–in things, in relationships–to a highly concentrated version of my previous life. Only the real, true, see-you-for-who-you-really-are friends made it through the fire. Only the bare necessities of our material life–a bed, a few pots,  a winter coat for each person–made it.

I could spend time missing the things and relationships that didn’t make it through, or I could realize that they didn’t make it through because they didn’t really matter to begin with.

Sure, some days (like today) I miss having a toaster; it just isn’t easy to toast bagels under a broiler. And most days I miss going to work, engaging with the next generation of leaders and parents and brilliant, talented coworkers. Every day I miss having a car. But overall? My soul is stronger; the blessings in my life are more concentrated; there is less emotional and material stuff to water it down. My life went from a 30 proof liquor, quite literally on the rocks,  to an 80 proof Rum, straight out of the bottle.

So, I am thankful for Letting Go. It taught me a lot about myself, about my priorities, about what I really need to be happy–which is much, much less than previously thought. And it has made room for good things to come.

A Month of Giving Thanks: Nov.2–Being Inlove

To read why I’m doing a Month of Giving Thanks, Click Here

You can't have him; he's mine.

I am blessed to fundamentally, undeniably,breathlessly be head-over-heals inlove with my husband, Matt…it is an especially good thing given our current circumstances…it doesn’t mean things aren’t still tough, but when they are good, they are really, really good. And a look, a comment, a kiss–can make all the difference in turning a day around; it is liberating from a bad mood. I can only hope everyone can experience that kind of attraction to another person.

I knew I was going to marry him before I ever met him; as I got dressed to go interview to be a reporter for The Daily Evergreen (and meet him…he, the editor-elect) I thought to myself that I should dress-up since “you never know when you’ll meet the person you’re going to marry.” How true that turned out to be.

We didn’t date in college, but we did after he graduated and took a job in my hometown, showing up on my parents’ front door his first week there to do a story on their involvement in salmon conservation. He’d never met my parents; I was barely even on his radar, still in college 300 miles away. But I’d told my Mom all about him, and my mom promptly said the wrong thing upon meeting him at her door, “Candace has told us so much about you!”

..did I mention she’d also been saving all his articles “for me”? Oh Mom. You set the Olympics standard for embarrassing your children.

But that embarrassing comment turned in to a series of ICQ (remember that?!) chats and eventually a date. Then he got a job in Hawaii (After just ONE date! argh!) and despite my better judgement and the advice of one of my advisers at the paper, I bought tickets to see Matt in paradise before he’d even arrived there. I’d told my adviser that I knew it wasn’t smart to spend the $700 I’d saved from working all summer on plane tickets to see a man I’d only been on one date with, but, I said, there wasn’t anything else I wanted to spend $700 on.

So I did it. Turns out it was the best investment I’ve ever made.

Of course, I knew the fact that I’d bought tickets to fly around the world to see him after just one date would freak Matt out, so I didn’t tell him for three and a half months…Two weeks before my flight I finally tested the waters and asked if I could come visit. Thankfully, he was all for the idea of seeing me for a second date.

I made it out again a month later for a third date. For that date he gave me a platinum and diamond ring on the beach at midnight on new years eve.

I made it to Hawaii one last time before Matt took a job in Idaho to be closer to me while I finished school.  We got married the Wednesday of finals week, three days before I graduated. The rest is, well, history.

Recipe: Tuna Melt

Some people go to Sun Valley for the skiing. I go for the Tuna Melts.

When Matt and I were dating, he lived in Sun Valley, Idaho. Since I was still in college, I only went out to visit him a few times…but each time I went we ate at Perry’s. And every time we at at Perry’s, I had a Tuna Melt.

Now first I have to tell you why I like Tuna Melts: My Dad used to make them. It was one of the only things I remember him making for me to eat. And I can remember it so clearly:  I was sitting at the dining room table with my back to the glass door that went to no where (we hadn’t added a deck yet, but for some reason had a glass door on a second story…one of many strange things growing up). Dad brought over a tuna melt on whole wheat bread. It had cheddar, tuna with mustard, mayo and relish and extra pickles. It was the anti-Peanut butter & Jam Sandwich. It was messy. It was its own monster. It couldn’t be cut in to fours, like other, lesser sandwiches. It could only be cut down the middle…but even then, some of the guts leaked out.

And he left the crust on.

Dad made one for himself, too.  He called it a “Baltz Sandwich”. And we both ate our messy sandwiches, together.

So when I was at Perry’s many years later, I ordered the Tuna Melt. Theirs was different from my Dad’s: it had spice and crunch and vegetables. And it was on pumpernickel. What the hell is pumpernickel?! I’d never had it before. And I loved it. Oh god, the pumpernickel is the secret to a good tuna melt.

After Matt and I got married, we moved about 70 miles away from Sun Valley.  I went back there a lot to do news stories and for fun, each time stopping at Perry’s for lunch. Each time ordering a Tuna Melt. Each time being blown away at how good it was.

Perry’s offers two kinds of tuna melts–one is Hot and the other is Cold (which makes it a non-melt if you ask me…). The difference is that their Hot melt doesn’t have all the veggies that the Cold melt does because, as one flustered staffer told me when I tried to order a Hot with veggies, “the vegetables would all wilt, you don’t want that”.

But I’ve figured out a way to get it both ways, so here is my recipe. This recipe is inspired by my childhood, and by perry’s.

Makes two sandwiches; perfect for a father and daughter.

Ingredients:

1 can Tuna, drained

2 tablespoons mayo

1 tablespoon mustard

2 tablespoons relish

1/8 teaspoon paprika

1/8 teaspoon kosher salt

A few grinds of fresh pepper

2 green onions, sliced thin

1/2 can water chestnuts, slivered

2 ribs celery, diced

1/4 onion, diced small

1 tomato, sliced

2 leaves of leafy green lettuce

4 slices Pumpernickel bread

Medium or Sharp Cheddar

Butter

Directions:

Slice the cheese, butter one side of each piece of bread. Place bread on warm (but not hot) griddle so the cheese will melt but the bread doesn’t burn. Put cheese on each piece of bread. While cheese is melting, prep the tuna: mix tuna with mayo, mustard, relish. Mix in paprika, salt, pepper. Slice and dice the water chestnuts, celery, onion, green onion and add to tuna.  Put this mix on top of one slice of bread for each sandwich you are making, leaving the other slice of bread with just melted cheese. Remove that slice with just the melted cheese, and place the leaf of lettuce and two sliced of tomato on it. Then remove the slice of bread with the tuna mix from the grill. Put the slice of bread with the veggies on top of the slice with the tuna. Cut in half. Done. Yum.