Then he saw them. A small, sad package of cocktail wieners. And a can of vegetarian beans in “maple-ish sauce.”
He washed the dish, dried his hands, and wrote on the grocery list taped to the fridge: FRANKS. REAL ONES.
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. 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. Then he saw them
Arthur bought them both.
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. REAL ONES
He took a bite.