Brussels Sprouts

My mother used to take little Brussels sprouts, wrap them in a meatloaf-type mixture and a seasoned tomato sauce, bake them and serve them up as inside-out cabbage rolls. I loved them. Dad ate anything--he'd put ketchup on it and swallow it whole if it didn't appeal to him. My sister chose peanut butter.

Hubby likes Brussels sprouts.  They had them one time at our favorite eatery. He was in heaven.  He begs me to buy them and doesn't ask that they be drowned in Velveeta.

Of all the vegetables I have ever cooked, Brussels sprouts are the only ones my sons never liked. Not even with cheese sauce.  When they were old enough to choose what they would and would not eat, Brussels sprouts were the first thing to go. (Aside here--we expected the boys to try everything until they were about 12. If they didn't like it, there was always peanut butter. I remember them asking once when they could eat what they wanted. We told them we weren't running a restaurant, I didn't cook anything poisonous (they still question my wild mushroom picking); they would eat what was served, or peanut butter. They never chose the peanut butter.)

I was reminded of this brief history of Brussels sprouts a couple of days ago when my friend of many moons showed up at my door with a whole stalk of them. Teeny tiny ones to big fat ones, green as emeralds and just as precious. As I plucked them from the stalk, I found myself popping the little ones into my waiting mouth. Yum.

I don't expect everybody to like the teensy cabbage-like veggies, just that you give them another try. Even the most vocal of my sons has agreed to try them once more if I send him some.

I might make a believer out of him yet.