Dear Chicken of the Sea

Hello. I have a complaint. But before I explain to you the particulars of my complaint, I want to establish a few facts:

1. I know that your product is not chicken. I’d like to think I know this because of all many foodstuffs that do taste like chicken, yours is not one of them. It’s likely that simple. Nevertheless, I do not discount the possibility that my firsthand experience with your product in conjunction with my basic understanding of the English language is what accounts for my possession of this knowledge. Although I do not recall the specifics surrounding my recognition of the true nature of your product, the above are the most likely. However, there is one last remote possibility. It’s possible that I know Chicken of the Sea is not chicken simply by virtue of the following facts: I do not intend to, nor have I ever applied to be a Mouseketeer; I am not blond (real or fake); and I can’t sing.

2. I’m a Bumble Bee man. For whatever reason (their tuna is more expensive and their packaging is more appealing on a subconscious level), I’ve always felt Bumble Bee tuna was of a better quality than StarKist. If it were up to me, I’d always choose Bumble Bee. Fortunately, it’s not up to me. I’ve surrendered the responsibility for grocery shopping to my wife. That’s not to say that I don’t accompany her to the grocery store. It is to say that with the exception of pushing the cart and picking out some Haagen-Dazs, it’s not my job to worry about keeping the kitchen stocked. So you’ll forgive me if I’ve chosen to tolerate substandard tune rather than have the conversation with my wife--who chooses your tuna because it’s cheap--where I attempt to explain to her why Bumble Bee is better.

3. You, dear addressee, are not a chicken (of the sea), a cartoon tuna, or even Mr. StarKist. You are, most likely, a “Customer Service Representative”. This means: (a) I’m not so insane that I think I’m writing to a fowl, rendering, or someone with the power to cure my complaint; (b) I am, however, still insane enough to waste my time writing; and (c) you are stuck in a dead-end job.

Now that we know a little bit about me, and a little bit about you, I feel more comfortable about telling you why I’m writing to complain. Perhaps the following behavior is strange, or weird, but it is how I was raised (read: I have an excuse). I was taught that the first two steps of preparing to prepare tuna are: 1. open the can with a can opener; and 2. squeeze the water out of the can. It is the second step that left me flustered the other night. Note: I said “squeeze” the water out, and not strain or drain the water out. To squeeze the water out of a can of tuna you hold the can with both hands over the sink with the cut lid still on. You then invert the can, and using your thumbs, you press down on the lid (now pressing upwards since the can is upside-down), the water is gradually squeezed out of the can and into the sink. This method works like a charm, and the determined squeezer (I am one) can squeeze nearly all the water out of a can of tuna in this way.

This is how I prepare to prepare tuna. This is how I’ve always prepared to prepare tuna. Absent either of these first two steps, I find I am unable to prepare to prepare tuna. So you can imagine my chagrin when after completing step 1 and commencing with step 2, the cut metal lid bent under the slight initial pressure I was applying to it and Chicken of the Sea squirted all over the sink. Flummoxed, I went to a second can, and sure enough, the lid of the second can again bent despite the insignificant pressure I was applying to it. When the lids of all 6 cans of tuna I’d opened proved inadequate I was beside myself.

Naturally, you might question my method. I would if I were in your shoes. But I can assure you that over the years I’ve become something of an expert at squeezing the water out of tuna cans. By using the full breadth of both thumbs, shifting points of pressure and a little patience, I’m actually quite impressive.

Therefore, it is my expert opinion that given all 6 lids failed to withstand my most meticulous attempts that the problem is not with me, but with you. The problem, it appears, is this that through some misguided effort to conserve resources or cut costs, you’ve changed the composition of your cans, and inadvertently made the lids too thin to perform their secondary task—that of squeezer. In other words, I can no longer satisfactorily squeeze the water out of your cans of tuna. That’s not to say I didn’t improvise. Surely I retrieved a cup from the cupboard whose base was relative to the side of the tuna can and used it to help squeeze the water out. But it was a stopgap measure that didn’t work as well as my thumb over sink method.

In conclusion, the next time I’m pushing a cart through the grocery store, I will break from my daydreaming long enough to explain to my wife why Bumble Bee is better. It won’t be because it’s more expensive or subliminally appealing. You see, she was witness to the fiasco, and so all I need say is maybe Bumble Bee’s cans are up to the task and that we should try them. We’ll buy them, and they’ll squeeze just fine (I’ll make sure of that [wink]), and from then on forward, my good wife will remember why we prefer Bumble Bee over StarKist. Goodbye.