My Nemesis

“My nemesis is your nemesis” has been an unwritten code since the dawn of time.

My nemesis began tormenting me in early childhood and stayed with me well into high school. Fortunately, my friends equally despised this bully and stood with me in solidarity. 

My mom tried to convince me to give my nemesis a chance. Where I saw evil, she saw good. She even forced us to spend time together.

It wasn’t until college that I finally rid myself of The Evil One.

Or so I thought.

About a year ago I was out to dinner with friends. The menu promised an array of small plate entrees.

Small plate means appetizers for dinner!

Q: What brings more joy than appetizers for dinner?

A: The laughter of a child?

Wrong. The answer is nothing.

So right in the midst of deciding if we should order tiny chicken tacos (adorable and tasty), my friend Melita mentioned my nemesis. Not only did she brazenly say the name, she suggested we invite The Evil One to dinner.

All my friends agreed.

Did everyone forget the code?

Then the whole group of Judases tried to convince me to give my childhood nemesis a chance.

I shook my head, but my friends were persistent.

“They don’t just boil them anymore,” one Judas said.

Another Judas nodded. “They’re sautéed with garlic and olive oil.”

“They’re delicious,” Judas #3 added.

I didn’t care if they gave me super-powers, I AM NOT EATING BRUSSELS SPROUTS!

“Look, you guys, you can order them,” I said. “But I do not like them!”

As the words came out of my mouth, I realized who I was…

Correction, Am.

I’m Sam-I-Am, who does not like green eggs and ham.

Except, green eggs sounded pretty good because I’m thinking, pesto eggs.

(Side Note: I love pesto so much I would drink it if it were socially acceptable.)

Also, when did brussels sprouts become the “It” vegetable? 

Ten minutes later, my nemesis arrived on a shiny white platter. 

No longer a soggy, sinister ball of cabbage, it glistened golden brown. The exterior was crispy and dusted with crumbled bacon. 

My foe is hanging out with bacon?

Has the world gone mad?

I leaned in closer, sniffing…

The odor took me back in time. 

I was an 8-year-old, trying not to gag as I hid my brussels sprouts in a napkin, just like my dad taught me.

I wrinkled my nose. I shook my head.

I just couldn’t.*

Not sauteed, not broiled,

Not with lemon, or olive oil.

Not in pot, not in a pan,

Not in a Tesla, not in van,

Not as a tapa, not with my Papa.

I do not like them…

 Jan-I-am!

  *I did try them. They were gross.