It wasn’t until I tasted my first sprout as an adult that I felt cheated, betrayed, and confused. At one of Michael Symon’s restaurants in Cleveland, I nibbled the edge of my first sprout, which was seared with bacon and dressed with a little bit of vinegar and parm. In a minute, I had devoured every little head and leaf in that mini-Dutch oven and I ordered a side to go, wondering all the while why had so many people had lied to me about Brussels sprouts. Where was the gaseous odor? The baby-food texture? The washed-out white color?

 

Obsessed doesn’t come close to describing what happened to me after tasting that fateful first sprout. My whole body craves them daily, to the point I sometimes feel my muscles twitch with the signals of withdrawal. I roast them in the oven. I sear them in a skillet. I deep-fry them in a Dutch oven. I bake them in a cheese sauce. I blanch them for salads. I even eat them raw after a good salting. And I never get sick of them. If anything, giving into my hankering only perpetuates the next special trip to the grocery store.

 

All sprouts really need is bacon or duck fat. A squirt of lemon. A little thyme. Maybe nutmeg. Definitely juniper berries. But their BFF is cream. Oh, how a little dairy makes sprouts rich and velvety. They are the perfect vegetable during late fall and early winter, and only then.

 

When Sarah introduced me to Nigel Slater’s cookbook Tender, it was his Brussels sprouts chapter that forced me to accrue a quite a bit in library fees.  Slater’s fondness for these cute, little cabbages only fed into mine. Full of suspense and longing, I spent many a night savoring each word read under bedside light; sometimes I stayed up late just to re-read certain passages. Give me Tender, venison tenderloin, and a pound of Brussels sprouts, and you will find me blushing and giddy in a pink, punk-rock apron.

 

Take it from me, there’s nothing to fear when it comes to Brussels sprouts. Respect them; cook ‘em right. And you’ll love them. Plain and simple.

 

 

Be careful to not over-whiz the veggies in the food processor, or you will have a dish that looks like baby food.

 

 

Preheat oven to 325. Remove any brown, tattered leaves from sprouts. De-stem and chop the kale. Cook sprouts and kale in boiling unsalted water for four minutes. Drain, then put them in a food processor with salt and pepper. Pulse several times until veggies are coarsely chopped, not whizzed to a pulp. Season with nutmeg and thyme. Stir in cream and most of the cheese. Scoop into a shallow baking dish. Scatter with rest of parm and breadcrumbs. Bake for 25 minutes or until crust is golden. Serve piping hot.

 

 

I have no childhood horror stories about being forced to eat vegetables I hated.  When conversations revolving around dreaded green vegetables turn to Brussels sprouts, I am at a loss.  I’ve loved Brussels sprouts since—well—since I saw how damn cute they are in the garden.  I grew up in central Nebraska on an 80 acre piece of land that looked like something off the set of Little House on the Prairie.  Like his pioneer ancestors before him, my dad coerced plants to grow on this windswept landscape, mostly alfalfa for cows, but also a huge vegetable garden for our family.  The Brussels sprouts, I confess, I loved the most.  They were distinct, unmistakable and slightly quirky.  Like all cruciferous vegetables their leaf petals splay out in fours, resembling a cross.  I wasn’t drawn to an image of martyrdom but to one of transformation.  My dad always grew Brussels sprouts from starts he bought at the garden center, and these plants began in May as small, unassuming seedling with just a few sickly chartreuse leaves.  By September, though, they had transformed into four foot high plants with thick trunks that reminded me of palm trees, topped with a thick shock of rounded, Phthalo-green leaves. Dad grew double rows, evenly spaced.  It was Sunset Boulevard for my Barbies.  If that wasn’t enough to inspire a ten year old girl to vegetable eating, then there was this:  the sprouts began as diminutive nubs that took an entire summer vacation to mature into a cabbage fit for a Barbie doll.  The long anticipation, the underdog status, the little-engine-that-could struggle before the Brussels sprout reached maturity made it a coveted treasure.

My mother never did anything spectacular with the Brussels sprouts my dad harvested from the garden, but she didn’t have to.  Before supper, he’d grab the dented aluminum colander and gather the sprouts, breaking off the full-grown globes that grew in dense spiraling rows up the stalk.  Mom boiled them in a little salted water and tossed them in butter.  Because the sprouts were so fresh, they weren’t ever mushy.  To eat them, with my fork tines, I’d pull off the dark outer leaves, which were saturated in sweet cream butter, and eat them, noticing how surprisingly sweet they were.  Then, I’d be slightly shocked at the bitterness that lay at their hearts.  In this contrast between sweet buttery goodness and sharp bitterness, I found a harmony.

As a kid, my relationship with Brussels sprouts was all in their image.  I imagined them as something special.  They were standouts in a garden of caged tomatoes and sprawling zucchinis. Even then I knew they suffered from bad publicity, but I saw through their bitterness and learned to embrace it, to brag about even.  I couldn’t help myself after I saw them grow from little baby sprouts, but of course, I was susceptible to things like that back when I still played with Barbies.

 

Trim woody stem of Brussels sprouts off, and slice in half lengthwise.  Melt butter and oil over medium high heat in large skillet.  Place Brussels in skillet cut-side down, and cover.  Cook 3 to 4 minutes until sprouts are browned.  Stir Brussels, add about a ½ cup of water, cover again and continue to cook until sprouts are tender, and water is absorbed, adding more water if need to.  Finish with a sprinkle of salt and lemon juice just before serving.