It's a tale of woe. Of tears shed and dinner made lovingly. It might make you laugh so hard you lose control of your bodily functions.
No wait. That was me.
I digress. A young (it's my story - shut up) housewife painstakingly creates a menu for her family's dinner on a Monday night. She finds recipes and does the grocery shopping; a new vegetable catches her eye. A vegetable that she doesn't make very often. In fact, it's a vegetable that she probably hasn't had since she was ten years old. The vegetable was ...
The Brussels Sprout(s).
Okay, okay. I know. They get a bad rap. But they're SO cute! Like little mini cabbages! So I bought a carton; I'd seen a recipe on Serious Eats, a blog I read, and it looked intriguing. There was a link about how Brussels Sprouts were making a culinary comeback.
Well, you know me. On the cutting edge, with my butter and my cream and my Lawry's Seasoned Salt. I like to be current.
So I made them. I thought they were great. In fact, I ate a couple before I put dinner on the table. They had a sort of nutty and sweet flavor, and the color complimented the Chicken Scallopine that I made for the main dish.
The family's reactions were a mixed bag. Ethan, my little vegetable eater, said, "These are great! You're a fantastic cook, mommy," as he was inhaling everything on his plate.
I look at Aaron, and he's just put one in his mouth. I say, "Aaron? How is it?"
He shifts the bite to his cheek and says, "Um, it's long to chew."
Nolan, at this point, snorts.
I look at my handsome husband, the love of my life, who never has anything but loving praise for the dishes I serve him, giving him a questioning look, and he asks, "Do you really want to know how I feel?"
I assure him that yes, I do.
He makes an awful face and says, "It tastes like feet."
Ethan immediately starts defending me, as does Aaron (even though he was still chewing), and I say, "Really? I like them."
Nolan assures me that he does not. He eats exactly one and a half sprouts, I think I had eight (they were halved) and then we clear up the dishes. He keeps making the face. I glare. He glares back. I say, keep it up and you're going to get Brussels sprouts every damn day for the rest of your life.
He shuts up and he leaves to take the kids to church. When he comes back, he's got a strange look on his face.
I ask my darling husband what the matter was.
He says, "Those things make the house smell like a dead animal. No, Carrie. A dead animal that's been dead two weeks, and you put it in the lake only to let it bloat up again before you drag it back into the kitchen and gut it so you can cook it. It's awful. AWFUL."
I tell him they're only vegetables.
He says, "Vegetables that smell LIKE ASS."
This happened to be the last straw. I might have lost my cool.
The last word on the subject was that I said something along the lines of ... he was getting fricking Brussels sprouts for every meal, breakfast included, every day for as long as we both shall live. I told him he made a vow, FOR BETTER OR WORSE.
Snarling my lip, I said, "This is the worse, baby. Buckle up."
He's been awfully quiet for the remainder of the evening. *snort*
It's all in good fun. I'm laughing, he's laughing.... though if he starts in again, I'm not above making good on the threat. *nods*