Winter roast

My parents are going to deny this – somewhere between December 1^st and the 24^th, 1993, a letter arrived from the North Pole. To this day I don’t know where this letter came from; it seemed very official, but perhaps it had been printed up by a family friend, or purchased from some store. My parents had never gone out of their way to prove the existence of Santa, they had just participated in the usual traditions – specially wrapped gifts that appeared beneath the tree (Mom) or the half-slurped glass of milk and plate of cookies with the tell-tale bite marks (Dad) – but it was never over-sold. So, to have fabricated a letter from Santa headquarters was a game changer, and I bought in hard.
The thing is, this wasn’t just a letter; it was a proposition. The letter had arrived with a chart outlining several chores and behavioral guidelines along with blank boxes following each category to be checked off daily upon the completion of the task. The proposed deal was that if by the end of the month all the boxes had been filled in, meaning all tasks had been followed precisely, everyday, Santa would have an extra special gift waiting for me on Christmas morning.

I did my best to fulfill the obligations as set forth by the letter. The categories were as follows: make your bed, keep your room clean, do your homework, help out with household chores, don’t whine, and eat everything on your plate. It was all good until that final category (well, actually the clean plate issue occasionally led to a whining issue, and then the whole thing snowballed) and that’s where the system kind of broke down. Though I wasn’t an overly picky eater as a child, there were a few choice items that I just couldn’t tolerate, and of those food items, I absolutely, positively, could not stand Brussels sprouts.

So, on December 22^nd, faced with a plate piled with sprouts, I realized I had a very serious problem. Those stupid cabbage balls were the single obstacle between me and that extra special gift; they were the one blemish on my otherwise perfectly filled in chore chart, but, try as I might, I couldn’t choke them down. Naturally, this led to a melt-down, in the middle of which I remember my mother very slowly leaning over and whispering, ever so sweetly, into my ear, “If you eat one more sprout, we’ll tell Santa that you cleaned your plate.” Needless to say, that last sprout went down before my mother had finished her sentence.

What you should take away from this story is not necessarily shock and awe that my mother would actually resort to this sort of petty bribery to get me to eat my vegetables. You might even let go the fact that she had offered to lie to Mr. Clause himself. What you should find shocking, however, is that in that moment, I fully believed with every ounce of my tiny being that my parents had the kind of power that meant they could trick Santa, and when, on Christmas morning, my extra special gift did arrive under the tree, I understood right then and there that my omnipotent parents were not to be messed with.

I was reminded of that exact sentiment again recently when, joking with my mother about my childhood disdain for Brussels sprouts, I politely suggested that perhaps it wasn’t the sprouts that I disliked so much as their preparation, and she politely told me where I could go. What I meant to say was simply that as a kid my taste buds had already developed into a lifelong trend: I like stuff roasted. Boiled vegetables just don’t do it for me. Water logged spinach? No thanks. Boiled broccoli? I’d rather not. Steamed sprouts? Activate the gag reflex.

Now that it’s winter, I’ve started to hunker down for hibernation, spending my evenings happily, slow-roasting vegetables of many varieties for a savory, hearty, dinner. A roast of sweet potato, fennel, and radicchio has become a particular favorite, but so too, actually, has this recipe for Brussels sprouts. In the end, as many things do, it came down to Martha. Roasted with a red onion, olive oil, and a touch of salt, Martha Stewart's sprouts recipe is a savory, sweet, and crispy, crunchy treat for a blustery winter evening, and is the dish that finally allowed my mother to convince me that Brussels sprouts aren’t totally icky. I hate to think that had she discovered this recipe earlier, the whole parents lying to Santa issue could have been eradicated, but, then again, maybe it was all part of the plan.

Sweet potato, fennel, radicchio, roasted with rosemary, topped with thai basil.

Happy Winter.