Ketchup, mustard, and mental anguish
In the grand saga of culinary conundrums, there exists a dilemma so profound, it has philosophers and foodies alike scratching their heads in bewilderment. The question at hand? Whether to anoint one’s fries with ketchup or mustard. Enter our protagonist, Jane, a woman of considerable taste and indecision, standing at the precipice of this very choice.
Jane’s eyes darted between the ketchup and mustard bottles, her mind a tumultuous sea of pros and cons. “Ketchup,” she whispered, its sweet, tomatoey embrace calling to her. But then, a glance at the mustard jar, its tangy zest beckoning, and she faltered. “Or mustard?” she pondered aloud, much to the chagrin of the increasingly long line behind her.
The cashier, a young man with the patience of a saint and the boredom of a teenager stuck in a summer job, sighed. “Ma’am, it’s not a life or death decision.”
Jane shot him a look, one that could only be interpreted as, ‘Oh, but is! Grandad liked kethup and Grandma loved mustard. It clearly IS a major decision. You clearly don’t understand the gravity of this situation.’ “It’s about the essence of flavor, the very soul of the fry,” she retorted, her voice dripping with the weight of her dilemma.
A fellow patron, a burly man with a beard that suggested he might be a lumberjack or a craft beer enthusiast, leaned in. “Why not both?” he suggested, his voice a rumble, like thunder rolling over a mountain.
Jane recoiled as if struck. “Both?” The very idea seemed to challenge the fabric of her reality. “Is such a thing even permissible?” she questioned, her gaze shifting from the man to the condiments as if expecting them to sprout legs and flee from the heresy.
The line behind her grew restless, a chorus of sighs and foot-tapping creating a soundtrack to her indecision. A child, no more than seven, tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Mommy, why can’t the lady just pick one?” she asked, her innocence piercing the tension.
Jane, now the center of a spectacle she never intended to create, felt the weight of the world on her shoulders. She felt the eyes of grandad and grandma peering lovingly over her shoulder, each hoping she ruled in their direction. “Because, my dear,” she began, turning to address her captive audience, “this isn’t merely about choosing between ketchup and mustard. It’s about defining who I am, through the medium of condiments.”
The crowd stared, a collective eyebrow raised. The cashier, who had by now given up any hope of a quick resolution, interjected. “You could just try them on different fries and see which you prefer?”
Silence fell. Grandpappy and Memaw stood stunned in holograms to her side. The crowd pulled back. The simplicity of the solution, the elegance of trial and error, struck Jane with the force of a revelation. “Of course,” she breathed, a smile breaking across her face. “Why didn’t I think of that?” The manager exhaled a huge sigh of relief.
And so, Jane proceeded to do just that, sampling each fry with the deliberation of a judge at a culinary competition. The verdict? “Why, both, of course!” she exclaimed, her voice triumphant. “The perfect balance of sweet and tangy, a harmony of flavors!”
The crowd dispersed, muttering about the time wasted, but Jane stood there, victorious, her fries now a testament to her culinary journey. The cashier, bemused but relieved, could only shake his head.
“Only in a fast-food joint,” he muttered, “could a choice of condiments become an existential crisis.” The ghosts of her grandfather and grandmother sat in the corner, eating fries and smiling, each with a bottle of their favorite condiment by their side.
