crossthreaded

I ate a brussel sprout once. It was green, round, and absolutely huge. It was the biggest green, round thing I had ever seen on my plate at dinner time. I had a lot of dinners behind me, too. I was nine years old.

This particular brussel sprout had a few tears on it, and maybe some snot, too. I’d been crying about it for a while. My mother told me I didn’t have to eat it, only try it. My grandmother said I needed to try it and eat it.

My favorite line as a child was, “I don’t like it.” This was even before I’d ever had one small bit of the food I claimed to despise in my mouth. The smell of a particular food usually did me in. If I didn’t like the smell, I wasn’t going to eat it.

Mama’s next line went something like, “Leyla, your grandmother says you have to eat the brusselsprout.” The tear fountain began gushing at that point. I think I boohooed about that brusselsprout for a good five minutes or so. I was the only one left at the table. I at that blasted brusselsprout only because I was forced to. Out of spite, I haven’t eaten another one since.

Maybe someday it’ll creep into my food repertoire, which is very small. Only in the last 3 years or so have I actually begun to enjoy salad (only Caesar, with ranch dressing on the side. I still don’t like Caesar dressing.), cooked tomatoes and bell peppers (on the pizza my husband makes), and cooked onions, celery and carrots, provided they’re mixed with lentils, a bunch of vegetable broth, and penne pasta.

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