Brussels

Dear Brussels Sprouts,

Let me start by saying “thank you”. You’ve been a constant companion for the past 18 months. Salt-kissed, oven roasted, bright green, delicious. Every single time. Delicious.

Out of all the photos I’ve taken with my phone over those same months, most are of my friend Carson. But second place goes to you, dear veggie. Your crispy green leaves, just a few, clinging to my favorite bright yellow bowl. Salt and pepper flaking the bottom and a silver fork resting on the lip.

I sheltered in place most of 2020 and a lot of 2021. One time I ordered grocery delivery and, of course, ordered some Brussels for dinner. I put “one”, thinking I was ordering a pound. What came to my doorstep was one sole sprout. And I loved it.

You are a strange joy-bringer. You, a vegetable either loved or hated. But you were a friend for me and it was a gift that, even strange and unusual (how often does one talk about the gift of Brussels Sprouts?), was meaningful and life-saving.

I think it will be interesting for us humans to look back on this time and talk about that which saved us. For me, Brussels Sprouts, a baby named Carson (and their mama) and Fresca. Zoom too, I guess, but differently.

Each of us will have a story to tell about the place they found safety and sometimes-tenuous joy. In the midst of a daily repetition, a bird song. When the room became so small from the walls closing in it felt difficult to breathe, an Iris. From a bed on a ventilator, a dimmed light and a nurse-squeezed hand. On a packed airplane filled with fear and desperate people, a bright yellow mask the color of the sun. When hanging an “out of business” sign in a window, a memory.

Sometimes, often, that was all we had. A memory.

This terrible time isn’t over, of course. There are vaccines to get. Please get vaccinated. There are beds to fill. Please remember the sick. There are beeping hospital noises to quiet. Please pray for the families of the dead.

I know it seems impossible to figure out how to walk each other through this - and stay together. We are so different. And often, so selfish.

But meanwhile, the pre-heating oven has beeped. The knife has cleanly done its chopping job. The olive oil has coated and the salt has kissed. It is time to spread those sprouts thin on the pan and roast them. 410 degrees, 12-ish minutes.

To you who is reading this: I look forward to the day you can stop by for dinner. It will be once this painful, deadly, unbelievable, tragic pandemic is over. To be honest, I don’t think that will be for a while. But come by as soon as you feel safe and you can. I’ll be waiting and you know what we’ll be having.

I eat them every night. Like a green salty mantra. I’m pretty sure I will make you a convert.

See you soon.