Sheila held the tuna. Frank donned the mitts. Beans, torn between his hatred of being captured and his love of fish, hesitated for exactly half a second. Frank lunged. There was a shriek—from Beans—and a yelp—from Frank—and a lot of chili-scented ferret thrashing.
The quandary presented itself on a Tuesday. Frank had made his "Famous Five-Alarm Memorial Day Chili" for a neighborhood potluck. It contained three types of beans, ghost peppers, and a secret splash of espresso. It was, by all accounts, a masterpiece. He’d left the pot on the counter to cool, lid slightly ajar.
Frank reached in. Beans bit him. Hard.
Here was the true quandary: to pull the ferret out meant enduring more bites, more chili, and the distinct possibility of getting his hand stuck. To leave the ferret meant dismantling the wall with a sledgehammer, which his landlord would not appreciate.
And Frank learned the hard lesson: a closed lid is not a locked cage, a ferret’s ambition knows no bounds, and the difference between a good story and a disaster is simply a matter of how many times you get peed on. the frank and beans quandary
When Frank returned from the bathroom, he found the scene: chili splattered across the ceiling like a Jackson Pollock painting, a single, chili-caked ferret paw-print on the refrigerator, and the pot overturned on the floor. But no Beans.
Frank did the only logical thing. He retrieved a can of tuna, a pair of oven mitts, and his neighbor, a quick-witted paramedic named Sheila who had once extracted a hamster from a vacuum cleaner. Sheila held the tuna
The neighborhood potluck that evening was chili-less. Frank brought a bag of store-brand tortilla chips and a haunted look in his eyes. Sheila told the story to everyone. Beans spent the night in a cardboard box, wearing a tiny, improvised cone made from a coffee filter, plotting his next move.