Growing up is hard to do

In theory I should never have trouble convincing myself that I'm a grown-up. I've completed over 20 years of schooling, I hold down a full-time job, I pay my own bills, and I live on my own. But sometimes I have to remind myself that I am an adult and not just a nine-year-old trapped in a 28-year-old's body. My bouts of uncontrolled excitement at the very sight of Skittles/Mike ‘n Ikes/SweetTarts/Jolly Ranchers/other sources of candy that pay for my dentist's country club dues, Berenstain Bears books, Full House reruns, and roller coasters are examples of some of those times.

Even if I act my age most of the time, I still haven’t managed to alter my response to brussels sprouts: "Ewwwwww. Grody!*" Until tonight, there would have been a likely possibility that the very presence of brussels sprouts could evoke the most irrational of responses from me: kicking, screaming, sticking out my tongue, rolling my eyes, scrunching up my face, and if you were lucky enough to get one in my mouth, you better believe that I’d plug my nose until I was done chewing and swallowing.

Of course I wouldn’t actually react in any of those ways (except maybe plugging my nose – that trick really works in blocking out taste), but admittedly brussels sprouts did sorta freak me out until tonight. Maybe not to the point that mushrooms freak me out, but I was still wary. Interestingly enough, my opinion of the sprouts had been based only on peer and societal pressure and not because my mother force fed them to me as a child (that is, unless I have merely repressed such memories and they will only surface via hypnosis). The same cannot be said of the mushroom, as the trauma of my first experience of eating one still haunts me today.

Earlier this week, I decided that the mature thing to do as both an adult and a person who prides herself in her open-mindedness and interest in food would be to put these preconceived notions about the brussels sprout to the test. I figured the only way I could fairly provide such vehement criticism of this baby cabbage would be to prepare some myself and make a reasonable assessment through taste-testing. Since my latest obsession is roasted seasonal vegetables, I decided to add a handful of brussel sprouts to my assortment of carrots, turnips, and red onion on a baking sheet; I roasted red beets separately wrapped tightly in aluminum foil. I drizzled the veggies with olive oil and liberally dusted them with kosher salt, pepper, and herbs de Province. After roasting at 425 degrees for about 45 minutes, the moment of truth had arrived.

Crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, the roasted sprouts were good…at least at first. As I allowed the flavor to permeate my mouth, I realized that whiny kids who refuse to eat them may be on to something. It certainly wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever eaten - I didn’t have any kicking or screaming responses to speak of – but those sprouts were far from one of the best things to ever pass my lips. As for the other vegetables, I couldn’t get enough of those and ate them eagerly, but there was something about the bitterness of the sprouts that left, well, a bitter taste in my mouth. Even so, I’m not about to close the door on them. But it should also be noted that I’m never going to force my kids to eat them (my future children now have that in writing) – that is, unless I teach them the plugged nose trick first.

Well, now that I’ve got the brussels sprouts situation straightened out, I think I’m going to stay up late tonight and watch an R-rated movie and eat spoonfuls of pumpkin ice cream straight out of the carton, just because I can. Sometimes being a grown-up is the best!


*Grody was a favorite word of mine in the early ‘90s. I probably picked it up from an episode of Full House.