A bad night out

We had an overnight babysitter, meaning, we could go out like adults and a few cocktails. A while ago, my company gave us a gift certificate to a swanky restaurant near our house. It seemed like a perfect thing. We would go, have some drinks, have a nice meal, and act like grown ups.

Everything was going to plan until the meals got there. Mom ordered a seafood pasta dish that was virtually inedible. I ordered salmon. i was taken a back when it arrived by the fact that my salmon dish was dressed with caramelized brussels sprouts. Yes, you read that right. Those tiny, crappy, smelly feet smelling vegetables, were on my meal.

It brought me back to a time when I was sitting at the dinner table, and my mom offered me ten dollars if I could eat a brussel sprout that was about the size of an ant. Ten bucks. I was ten at the time, so ten dollars amounted to a small fortune.

“I’ll be able to retire.” I thought looking at the crisp new ten-dollar bill on the table. My smile quickly faded when I contemplated my nemesis, the very offensive brussel sprout. I just completely loath them. They are like cabbages for Lilliputians. They smell like a combination of dirty socks and dirty underwear. That thing stood between me and possible retirement.

Usually I would cry if my mom put even one on my plate. Alright, maybe not cry, but I would whine like a champion 10-year-old whiner.

I stopped whining when the ten bucks went on the table. I elected to probe my mom for the ground rules.

I grabbed a spoonful of mashed potatoes and held them so my mom could see them. “Can I grab a mouthful of mashed potatoes, shove the brussel into my mouff, n’ neat?” I asked, giving her a demonstration at the same time.

“Yes.” She replied, coyly. She was clearly enjoying the prospect of seeing me eat my nemesis.

“And can I wash it all down with a glass of milk?” I asked through a mouthful of milk and potatoes.

“Anything you want. Just finish the brussel and the ten is yours.” I weighed the options; there was no way I was gonna say no. “You’re on.” I said, taking the bet.

Now it was just me and the dirty-sock smelling reject of the cabbage family. Either it was going down, or I was going down. But first, I would do a practice run. Some might call the query about the ground rules a practice run, but at the time, I hadn’t taken the bet. So it was different this time. This time I had my ten-year-old-I-want-the-ten-bucks-game face. The practice run of mashed potatoes washed down with milk went well.

I was ready.

My will wasn’t. I did try. I had it close to my mouth a couple of times, but when the brussel got close to my mouth, my nose caught a wiff and it was gag city. Staring at the brussel sprout, I knew it was going to win. I hated them sooooo much. Even for a small fortune, I was sure I could never eat it.

“When can we have something other than brussel sprouts?” I asked, getting close to giving up.

“When you learn to cook.” My mom said, taking the ten dollar bill off the table when it was very clear that I was not going to earn it.

I learned how to cook. I am not sure if it was the infamous brussel sprout incident, but I learned how to cook because of my love for food and for my desire to never, ever, make anything with brussel sprouts in it.

And I never once expected to get salmon with brussels on it. But even though the dinner was a flop, it was nice to be out with Rhona. We played some pool, walked the streets and had a nice time. Even a brussel sprout couldn't wreck the night completely.