The sad thing is that I now have about four stories started for this that are halfway to mostly finished, but I keep hitting a point where I just lose my footing with it and have to take some distance from it. Does this ever happen to anyone else, or am I just a very lucky girl?
In any case, more silliness here for your reading pleasure. This one actually came about from a conversation I was having with some friends of mine. Easter weekend, I happened across something in my yard that killed whatever latent desires I had to continue eating meat and I resolved to go vegetarian. So I was talking to a couple of my friends who've successfully managed around seven years meat free for advice and recipes that don't involve soy (because I'm allergic). Let's just say that I've been just like Porthos and D'Artagnan in the past and I definitely got a lot of good advice yesterday.
Disclaimer: Okay, you caught me. I own them. They all belong to me. I was close friends with Alexandre Dumas. I was deeply involved in the creation of the films. Milla and I are shopping buddies. Logan calls me all the time. I'm secretly dating Luke Evans. So go on, now. Be jealous. It's okay, I give you permission.
A Vegetarian Tuesday
Tuesdays had never been D'Artagnan's favorite day of the week. Ever since he was a boy, Tuesday was always the one day of the week which he despised and wished to avoid altogether. That particular condition, he reflected, had only gotten worse upon his arrival in Paris. His first Tuesday, he had been robbed. His second Tuesday in the city, he had the misfortune of walking directly underneath a window just as something wet and rather foul smelling that D'Artagnan could not identify was dumped from an ugly colored pot. He spent the following week drenched in that same foul smell, despite his many attempts to wash it off, until his third Tuesday—which he mostly couldn't remember, thanks to the wine Porthos brought home. He woke Wednesday morning to find himself not wearing his trousers, in the arms of not one but three wenches from Porthos' favorite tavern, and with the words 'I love Buttercup' tattooed in exquisitely written Spanish across his chest.
He was elated to find that he no longer smelled of the foul substance, at least. The wenches' perfume was actually pleasant, he thought.
It was the fourth Tuesday of his time in Paris when D'Artagnan returned from his rounds under Monsieur Dessessart, accompanied by the venerable Athos, dropped his effects unceremoniously by the door and collapsed into the nearest chair. He determined at that moment not to move until after dinner and, having had a tiring but not necessarily bad day, refused Porthos' entreaties to enjoy a nice cup of wine so as to avoid ruining what D'Artagnan considered his good luck. He even went so far as to fall asleep in that chair, in an extremely uncomfortable position.
He woke exactly two hours later, startled by a curious tickling sensation under his nose and the sound of Porthos slamming himself down in a chair. D'Artagnan jumped awake, resisted a sneeze and eyed his friend through tired eyes.
"All right, sirs," came Planchet's voice from the kitchen. "Dinner is served." And Planchet had to admit, as he walked from the kitchen to the next room with plates of food balanced carefully on both arms, he had really outdone himself this time. He padded across to the table and set down the plates of food, smiling in satisfaction at their arrangements. "Now I've—why, young sir, what's that on your hand?" Planchet asked, frowning as he looked pointedly at D'Artagnan's left hand. Noticing Porthos' suspicious grin, D'Artagnan looked down at his left hand with a puzzled expression to find some sort of whipped, foamy white cream. Not too far from this view, he further found a small feather which had at some point been abandoned on the floor. Reaching for the nearest piece of cloth he could find to use as a napkin, he wiped his hand clean and fixed Porthos with a glare before pushing himself up in his chair to prepare for dinner.
"Planchet," Athos commanded the servant's attention as he eyed on the dishes.
"Oh, yes, sir?" Planchet responded, scowling at the cloth D'Artagnan used as a napkin.
"What is this?" Athos asked blandly, turning the plate just so to get a better view of it.
"Ah," Planchet returned with a smile. "I had a nice talk with a physician today at the market and I thought it might be nice if we all tried to eat a bit more healthy." Here, Planchet drew himself up, squaring his shoulders with pride. "So I've prepared an entirely vegetarian meal for tonight."
"Nonsense!" Porthos protested immediately. "I'm as healthy as an ox!"
"And when was the last time you saw a healthy ox?" Athos turned to ask him. Porthos ignored him with prejudice.
"Vegetarian?" D'Artagnan asked, obviously puzzled.
"It means to abstain from the practice of eating meat," Aramis supplied sagely, turning his own plate just so and silently debating how best to approach this new development. Porthos scoffed loudly at this comment, clearly not supportive of the issue.
"Well, that's all well and good, but where's the lamb?" Porthos demanded, thumping the table with his hand. Planchet turned to him happily.
"There isn't any," he replied.
"Lamb is a kind of meat," Aramis told him. Athos couldn't stop the slight smirk from showing on his face at Porthos' reaction to this news. Neither, he found, could Aramis.
"Fine, then where's the steak?" Porthos asked with a growl. At this, Planchet's elation seemed to begin to fade.
"We-well, there isn't any, sir," came Planchet's response.
"Steak is from cow," Aramis told him coolly. "Another meat."
"Well, what about the pork?" Porthos returned quickly with a scowl. Clearly, he was not enjoying this new idea of Planchet's.
"Pork is from pig," Aramis said simply.
"Then bring out the bacon!" Porthos demanded loudly. Planchet had begun to tremble slightly, Athos and Aramis were both amused, and D'Artagnan looked deeply confused as he eyed something green on his plate.
"Bacon is also from pig," Aramis told him serenely. Porthos glared at him.
"Sausage!"
"Pig."
"Pepperoni!"
"Pig."
"Salami!"
"Pig.
"HAM!"
"Also pig." Aramis was clearly a fountain of information on the subject—something Porthos did not appreciate. At last, he huffed and turned back to Planchet.
"All right!" Porthos declared in defeat. "If you're so determined to do this vegetarian thing, then at least bring out the frog legs." Athos had begun to get frustrated as he watched the scene over his cup of wine, Aramis was eternally patient with his good friend and D'Artagnan was reaching out to touch the mysterious green thing on the plate tentatively.
"Frog legs," Aramis began simply—he didn't want to confuse poor Porthos anymore than he already seemed to be. "Are made from frogs—a meat."
"You do understand the concept of a vegetable, don't you?" Athos asked with a skeptical look. Porthos, however, looked positively scandalized at this new information and didn't hear Athos at all.
"No meat?" Porthos asked with horror in his voice.
"None," Aramis told him, happy to provide his friend with this knowledge.
"I think that's been established," Athos said drily.
"I think it moved," D'Artagnan whispered as he watched the unidentified green thing carefully.
"It's spinach," Planchet told him, feeling a bit of his lost pride returning to him.
"Spinach?" D'Artagnan asked as though he had never heard of such a thing before in his life.
"It's a green, leafy vegetable high in iron and fiber," Aramis explained, and Planchet was practically glowing with joy.
"Then what's the brown thing?" Porthos snapped. He was no fan of spinach.
"Tofu," Planchet told him, as if it were the most simple thing in the world.
"Tofu?" Porthos responded. "Tofu? What the hell is tofu?"
"It's a paste made from soy beans," Aramis provided, earning a scowl from his friend.
"There's also seitan—" Planchet was interrupted quickly.
"Say-who?" Porthos asked incredulously.
"Seitan," Planchet repeated.
"It's made from wheat," Aramis said. Porthos' expression did not improve. "You do know what wheat is?"
"Of course I know what wheat is!" Porthos snapped. Athos and Aramis did not look convinced and became even less so when Porthos turned to D'Artagnan conspiratorially and asked, "Quick, boy—what's wheat?" D'Artagnan's response, however, was less than satisfactory.
"I think it's watching me," he whispered. Porthos took a long look at the green, leafy vegetable and couldn't help but agree. The spinach was, indeed, watching him.
"And that is eggplant, if I'm not mistaken, Planchet?" Aramis asked. Planchet smiled at him, glad that at least someone was able to identify something on the table.
"Most excellent, sir. It's eggplant with basil," Planchet told him happily.
"Well done, Planchet," Aramis congratulated him. Planchet couldn't believe his joy and practically danced his way out of the room. Aramis' companions had a rather different view on the subject.
"Well done, Planchet?" Porthos asked. "Well done? We have spinach and tofu, and 'well done, Planchet'?"
"There are also lentils and grain patties," Aramis added, nodding to the food in question.
"Lentils and grain patties," Athos repeated. He swirled the wine in his cup and eyed Aramis critically. "You do seem to be taking to this well," he said curiously.
"Hardly," Aramis responded calmly. "I simply don't want Planchet to suspect anything when we sneak up behind him and have D'Artagnan hold him down for us."
Athos, seeing the wisdom in this, nodded in agreement and took another sip of his wine in preparation. Porthos, never one to be left out, straightened his doublet. Expectantly, the three turned to D'Artagnan, who at that moment was busy stabbing the offending spinach vehemently with a fork in the act of brutally murdering it. A moment later, he let out a loud yell of triumph. "Death to spinach!" And with that, the four shared a knowing look before pushing away from the table and walking toward the kitchen to deal with Planchet. D'Artagnan later reflected that as Tuesdays went, his had ended bizarrely, but not badly, and he considered this perhaps the end of his unlucky streak.
On his fifth Tuesday, D'Artagnan had to explain to Constance just who Buttercup was and why he had her name tattooed across his chest.
Reviews aren't necessary, but should you review I will build a shrine in your honor and offer worship of freshly baked cookies and key lime pie. Okay, not really, but I will love you forever and think about you the next time I have freshly baked cookies and key lime pie...which is really almost as good, right?
