Whole, you are dead to me. Sure, you are a veg so I suppose you think that you are already dead, but you are that much deader to me should you arrive on my plate entier.
My friend, we’ll call him “Josh,” tipped me off to the chopping of the sprout. It was a hot, little number that involved bacon-y bits and pine nuts. One bite and I enjoyed an old vegetable enemy with new vegetable potential.
You can treat a chopped Brussels sprout like any run-of-the-mill cabbage. But when you cook them, you MUST sing. Sing from the heart. The lyrics. The meaning. Your struggles. Other people’s struggles. Love. Quand On N’a [beat] Que L’amour.
Fried egg on top
Brussels Sprout ditty that I call “Fanette” – onions, garlic, sprouts, pine nuts bubbled in duck fat.