I’m a vegetarian. Many years ago, when I first began to wean myself off of meat, I replaced that muscle stuff with potatoes and bread. Problem was, I was the vegetarian who didn’t care much for vegetables. This posed a serious dietary problem…
Since those early years and somewhat unhealthy start on the road to meatlessness, my fruit and veg palette has broadened considerably. There is rarely a time when you won’t find broccoli in the fridge or lentils in my cupboard. Every year – and there have been perhaps ten of them since I first cut out beef, pork, and chicken – I expose my tongue to new soil-birthed delights. One added since residing in the UK? Brussels sprouts.
Of course they were available in America too, but in the US, I only faced those tiny, boiled, devil’s cabbages in the kitchen of my parents, where I of course refused to eat them. Fast-forward more than twenty years and I now prepare the little green bundles myself. I even eat them. I must be losing my mind.
If there’s any truth to the old wives’ tale about the more unpleasant the medicine, the better it will work, then I believe that the more difficult (or pain in the ass) a vegetable is to prepare, then the more healthy it must be for you. At least it should be. Smothering the little bastards in cheese sauce probably ruins the medicinal and positive effects of Brussels sprouts, but at least I’m eating them now.