Brussels Sprouts: not just a means to punish your kids anymore!

They're like tiny, baby cabbages! How can you not like 'em?!

I don't know if I've always liked Brussels sprouts or not; I do know I've liked them for as long as I can remember, which, in my world these days, means since yesterday. But I don't eat them often, because though I've had some gorgeous emerald-green, crisp-tender, flavorfully roasted (or otherwise prepared) sprouts in my day, I was also weaned on the frozen variety, which were usually just boiled in water, drowned in butter, and ended up on the pale, mushy end of the vegetable scale (which means it's no longer is a vegetable, by that point). That may have somewhat tainted my perception of the cute li'l leafy baby cabbage-like globes, and gives me pause when I see them in the grocery store, or on a menu.

I don't remember hating B. sprouts, like I did peas when I was in Kindergarten—peas are truly the only food item I can immediately recall having an honest-to-God visceral reaction to; as a tender five-year-old, peas honestly made me gag till my eyes watered—I think I even threw up in my hand once, when the cafeteria lady tried to force me to finish my cupful of creamed peas before I was allowed to leave the table. I cried really hard till snot ran down my nose and into my mouth, and I threatened to tell my Dad on her—now, if anyone knew my Dad back in the day, as the youngsters nowadays say, those were some serious fightin' words. Invoking the wrath of my Dad would be the modern day equivalent of a terroristic threat that could result in a lockdown of the school—trust me, you did not want my dad, a fierce li'l pitbull in his heyday, clamped onto your ass, man . . . but wait, we're talking Brussels sprouts here, not peas, or my dad, which I like just fine these days, creamed or not, in case you were wondering. Peas, I mean, not my Dad. With a glob of butter, some salt & pepa, I've learned that just about anything can taste pretty awesome. Well, except my Dad. And that's just plain bizarre, that I'd even type that. And now, I have the song "Push it" playing in my head and will, for the next week, all because I thought I'd be cute and type salt & pepa back there, 20 minutes ago, and you, too, can have it on a continuous brain loop, if you click the link! Double-dog dare ya . . . 'scuse me while I go see if I can score a few tablets of Ritalin from a high school kid . . .

Heavenly Hash, or something like that . . . 

Anyhooooooooodles. . . few summers ago, my sister, Jill and her li'l girlie, Amelia came out to visit us a few weeks before Bob went into the U for his godforsaken nightmare of a surgery. I remember the day well; though Bob was on a strict (self-prescribed) ice cream diet at that time, we still made a kick-ass lunch from farmer's market bounty we had picked up earlier in the day, hoping to tempt him with some delicious, savory home-made goodness. One side dish from that day, that has stuck in my mind is a killer Brussels sprouts with cashews and maple sugar recipe that Jill whipped up (and in the process, created an utter disaster in our kitchen, btw—swear to God, every freakin' pot, pan and utensil we owned was filthy—there were Brussels sprouts sticking to the walls and ceiling, by the time she was done with the meal, Gaia was lopping up maple syrup and cashews from the floor—but it was tooooootally worth it). These were The. Best. Brussels. Sprouts. Ever. In. The. History. Of. EVER. Even Bob forsook (forsuked? forsaked?) a bite of ice cream for a bite of this baby green vegetable heaven and pronounced it good. But, I haven't had it, or made it since.

The other day at Trader Joes, I spied a little bag of Brussels sprouts in the produce department, and threw them in my cart, as the memory of that memorable side dish infiltrated my brain, and it's all I think about, whenever I open the fridge, since I bought 'em. I couldn't remember the exact recipe, and have been playing phone tag with Jill these past few days to try to get it, before the sprouts, which have been in the fridge for the past several days now, start to sprout fur. But, I couldn't reach her, so I did a quick search last night, and found a recipe: Maple Syrup Brussels Sprouts with Pecans which I'm pretty sure is similar to what she made on that bittersweet, beautiful summer day, back in August of 2010. This recipe calls for pecans; I substituted cashews (toasted them, too, as the recipe says). Instead of 4 tablespoons of coconut oil (not sure why it asks for so much, seems like they'd end up grotesquely greasy), I used a good heaping tablespoon, and added 2 tablespoons of balsamic vinegar, for kicks and giggles. Oh, and I had some onion in the fridge, so I chopped it up and roasted it along the sprouts, too.

I served the sprouts with plain ol' cooked quinoa, to round out my meal. As I was preparing it, I could almost transport myself back to the time when I used to love to cook and would lose my self in the kitchen, experimenting with recipes, ingredients . . . I traveled back in time, to when our lives were so insanely out of control and the only thing I felt in control of, was what I was making in the kitchen, what I was feeding Bob, to help nourish him, to help stave off the effects of the chemo and cancer, to help him gain weight . . . and in the time-travel, I also thought how much love went into ever act I did for him during that nightmare, and how much love he radiated back to me, as sick as he was, he was always so grateful, so appreciative of everything everyone did for him . . . I still, to this day, maintain the believe that there never will be a cure for cancer, but that's another blog for another time, if ever. The best, and really only thing we can do is take care of each other, along the way. And that is all we need to do.

Soooooooooooo, try this recipe, today, dammit! I mean it! You can't leave the table until you do! It won't cure cancer, but even if you think you don't like Brussels Sprouts, this recipe might change your mind. But if you still don't—absolutely NO spitting them out in your hand. I mean, throwing them up.