Brussel Sprouts still suck, just not as bad as they used to. At the table growing up . . . big brothers (cool, snickery); a sister (holding her own); mom (ringleader, cook); dad (dropped off by carpool at 5:23 pm, a little later on his driving day, serving up); and me (punk, dragged in from kick the can or whatever) . . . there was almost always something tasty on offer. Seems incredible even to me, but we all showed up pretty much every night for many years.
Which was fine, a little stiff at times but more than a few laughs along the way and like I say, decent-plus edibles (thanks mom!!). And eating together forms bonds (I didn’t know that then). Except Brussel Sprouts. We weren’t poor so they weren’t canned. But we weren’t rich so we had no notion of “fresh” (dirty? European?) A&P didn’t have fresh anyway. My mom boiled the living Ess out of those frozen, piss-green balls. Stunk up the place. Mouth-feel like the inside of a waterlogged baseball, taste like paste and not the minty kind; rotten spinach, fish? Bad. I cut a deal with the dog – you eat my Sprouts, I shoot you a couple extra Milk Bones.
All that’s changed of course. Now you get BS on the stalk or at least fresh in a zip-lock bag with sell-by date. Try this: Baking pan. A little bacon fat (ok more than a little), salt ‘n peppa, olive oil and lemon. Preheat to 6750 deg. Shove it in and 10 min later, Boom!!. Crispy on the outside — leaves shatter and bacony. Tender on the inside – smooth, the sour gone, almost sweet. Earthy not dirty.
But that pure high never lasts. Along comes oven-roasted BS No. 18, a bigger one that didn’t quite caramelize or tenderize . . . maybe a rough time growing up on Better Than You Organic Farm. Bite into that Eff’er and well, where is the dog??
Old Man Wrong