It took well over thirty years to overcome the childhood culinary wounds inflicted on me by my loving mother. Sorry mom, but the way you prepared brussels sprouts was downright cruel. Boiled whole to stinking imperfection. Even the smallest of bites drowned in milk couldn’t prevent the gaging. You were not a particularly strict mother, but for some godforsaken reason you chose to put your foot down when it came to consuming your brussels sprouts. It was torture to eat those things. Not even the dogs would do their canine duty and help me dispose of the rancid little cabbages. Fast forward to 2013. Brussels sprouts are good. I’ve ordered them a half dozen times. Crispy. Cheese. Butter. Bacon. Sugar. And always peeled!