There’s something peculiar about Brussels Sprouts. You will be hard pushed to find someone who admits to liking them, and yet every Christmas we all find ourselves downing these miniature brassicas like they were only available once a year.
I have more reason than others to despise them. Unlike other families we did eat them quite often, usually with a Sunday roast. Normally, Mum would cook them in a pressure cooker, which at least meant that they would not be cooked to death. It did mean that they would be very hot, though. One day, whilst we were living in Dundee, I failed to heed the usual warning to leave the sprouts to cool, tried to eat one and choked on it. I can only imagine how frightening this must have been for my parents as I struggled to cough the scalding hot sprout out of my throat.
I am not sure how long it took me to recover from that particular injury (I remember that Opal Fruits soothed my scalded mouth and throat quite nicely) but I do know that it was a very long time before I tried a sprout again.
And now? Well, I guess Christmas wouldn’t be the same without boiled sprouts. There are nicer ways to cook them, or so I have found, but they seem a little wrong at this time of year.