Not eating brussel sprouts

Sometimes, I realize exactly where I am in life and for a second, I stand back, take a good, hard look and wonder what in the heck I’m doing here.

This happened last night. And I blame it on the brussel sprout. I always assumed I hated brussel sprouts. I’m not a picky eater but I distinctly remember my great grandmother Tyler making them one time, when I was 7, and they were mushy and stinky and gross. I spit them into my napkin at the dinner table and never attempted to eat them again. But this weekend, they caught my eye in the produce section at the grocery store and they looked really healthy and fresh, so I bought some and steamed them and then sautéed them in some butter and salt and pepper and fell in love. They were crisp and perfectly nutty and filling and I really think I could eat them every day. And that’s when I realized that I wasted 18 years not eating brussel sprouts.

This brings me to my cube at work. How much good am I really doing for 40 hours a week as I sit in front of my computer and write about baking and industry things and people? I drive home for lunch and see mothers with babies and they look really happy and fulfilled. Or I read The NewYorker or a really great creative nonfiction essay and I think, one day that will be me. I clip the piece out for inspiration but then I put it in a folder that I rarely look through because it’s just too hard to realize what my dreams are when I don’t seem to have the time to get there. One day, I will write my memoir. I will take 6 months off and write my heart out until it bleeds and hurts and until I’ve picked it apart and shared its innermost cavities with the world. And while I’m writing for myself, I’ll volunteer in the community and start a family and finally run a marathon. If only it were as easy as eating brussel sprouts again for the first time