Arthur faced a choice. He could abandon the ritual. Eat leftovers. Order a pizza. Let the Tuesday spell be broken. Or—and here was the rub—he could substitute.
He opened the pantry. The beans were there—a dusty can of B&M, as always. But the frankfurters were not. He checked the meat drawer. Empty. The freezer. A lone bag of peas. A chill, far colder than the freezer’s, ran down his spine.
And yet, he finished the plate. Not because it was good, but because he realized the quandary had never been about the food. It was about the decision. A bad Tuesday ritual was still a Tuesday ritual. the frank & beans quandary
He stood there, a man between two existential cliffs. Frank represented tradition, certainty, the savory anchor of the meal. Beans represented the sweet, saucy chaos that swirled around it. Without frank, was he just a man eating beans? Without beans, was he just a carnivore on a plate?
Back in his kitchen, he prepared the meal with the same solemnity as always. The cocktail wieners were too small, too slick. The vegetarian sauce was thin and lied about its maple heritage. He sat down. Fork poised. Arthur faced a choice
He took a bite.
The quandary was solved. Next Tuesday, order would be restored. But for seven long days, Arthur Figg would live in the gray space between what a meal should be and what it actually was. And that, he supposed, was simply the taste of being human. Order a pizza
Then he saw them. A small, sad package of cocktail wieners. And a can of vegetarian beans in “maple-ish sauce.”