So, the opinion post that took me ten minutes to write, wherein I erred in two embarrassing typos: conflating canaries with jihadists and saying "Assad" rather than Assad pere et fils would be my most popular blog entry ever! And doubtless critics will come away with the opinion that I am an idiot because of the aforementioned errors, while less well informed confreres will get confused and (without reading the subsequent post's corrections) mistakenly think there is and has been only one Assad, rather than a family. Argh! I usually over-edit my writing into such dry, lifeless stuff, so I guess having readers enjoy my work is comforting. Susan and Steven just walked in and assure me that in the broad scheme of things, it really doesn't matter. Ok, ok. I know. But my ingrained worrywartism will manifest occasionally! :-)
I've never been a huge fan of Brussels sprouts. It's not that I actively disliked them so much as they were gastronomic terra incognita for most of my life--it was simply not a vegetable served at family dinners. I don't think I encountered my first bowlful of sprouts until I was in my early 30s. I found them tough, but edible, and have obediently gnawed through a serving when they've appeared on the table. To me, they've best represented the concept of "roughage"--little golfball sized orbs of green fiber, good for running through the digestive pipes to keep them free of debris, but hard on the dentures. I had my first really good, soft and tasty version of sprouts last night, at a friend's birthday dinner. Apparently they took two hours to peel. I didn't know one had to peel them. Neither has anyone who's ever served them to me before, it seems. The Birthday Girl's father cooked everything but the sprouts, which her mom supplied. It was a gourmet spread, with filet mignon you could cut with a spoon, and made-from-scratch lemon cake for dessert. I practically waddled to my car afterwards.