There are very few things that I did not like to eat when I was a kid. (A fact that is probably related to my mothers insisting on us eating everything she cooked, no matter what). So I liked most things that landed on my plate, expect for a period of time when I did not like beets, the phase of aversion against a salad called Chinese cabbage here, and the Brussels sprouts I was only confronted with when I visited my great grandmother together with my grandma.
There are only a few things I remember of her. She spent the last few years suffering from Alzheimer's, unable to talk or to recognize her daughters. But years before that, I sometimes went to visit her, together with the grandmother I wrote about last week. And one thing I distinctly remember is the small of boiled Brussels sprouts wafting all through her apartment. Still to this day, Brussels sprouts remind me of her and the house she lived in with its garden and the girls in the neighbourhood I used to play with.
I did not like Brussels sprouts back then, but thanks to my boyfriend, I came to really like them. Sautéed until slightly crispy, drizzled with a little maple syrup, they are completely different from the Brussels sprouts I was served in this apartment all those years ago. Maybe you never like them, either. But they are a totally different vegetable when not cooked to death, still crunchy in some places, caramelized in others, sweet and salty at the same time.
