The Fear of Brussels Sprouts
The Fear of Brussels Sprouts
By Josie Mitchell
Cyrus sipped his coffee as ads blared from the little television that was propped haphazardly on a pile of never-read books stacked on the side table. Why the ever-present risk of their precious television tumbling to its doom didn’t bother his grandparents, Cyrus would never know. He supposed it had just been there so long they wouldn’t know what else to do with it or where to put the books.
“Barbecuing today?” a man in the ad roared from the screen.
The high volume was always a bit jarring first thing in the morning, but Cyrus didn’t mind. Since his grandpa’s hearing had started going a few years before, it had become normal. Cyrus had come to like the noise; it was part of the environment of his grandparents’ home. He loved everything about being there, from the dusty sofa he was currently sitting on, to the smell of cut grass that wafted through the windows from the constantly mown lawn, to the way that his grandma put his coffee into the same mug, his mug, every time he visited.
“Don’t forget to stop by for your last-minute grocery needs” the ad continued, flashing overly saturated videos of a hand flipping burgers, steaks sizzling, butter being smeared over corn cobs…
“Grandpa, are we bringing anything to the barbecue later? Do you need me to get anything from the store?”
The ad showed Brussels sprouts browning on a grill. Cyrus made a mental note to get some if he went out; they’d always been one of his favorite foods, but his parents didn’t like them and never got any.
“Ads these days...” His grandpa grumbled, clicking the remote. The Brussels sprouts blinked out of existence as the screen went black. “The store? Oh, yes if you could, we’d appreciate it. Your grandmother was saying something about needing more chips for her salad? Ask her. And get us a few steaks; people are always so stingy with meat at these things...”
“Sounds like a plan.” Cyrus laughed. “I’ll go once I’ve finished my coffee.”
Once the coffee was drained to the bottom of the cup, Cyrus went and found his grandma in the kitchen, reading over her salad recipes.
“What would we do without you?” She fawned, after requesting her chips and a few bottles of dressing. Cyrus tried to object when she handed over several twenties for the groceries, but, as always, he was out-argued. “And get whatever else you’d like to bring. I’ve no idea what your parents will have.”
In the fluorescently lit chain supermarket of his small hometown, Cyrus debated steak prices. He ended up choosing moderately juicy ones, though they weren’t on sale, because his grandparents deserved nice things—he would slip his grandma’s money back into her wallet anyway.
“Are you celebrating today?” the vaguely familiar cashier asked, eying the steaks and smiling politely. According to his nametag, he was called Jack.
“My parents are having a barbecue. What about you, anything after work?”
Jack picked up the bag of Brussels sprouts, pinching it gingerly between two fingers. “Dinner with my girlfriend’s family.”
“Nice.”
The Brussels sprouts were chucked into the grocery bag so quickly that they almost missed the scanner. Jack had stopped smiling.
“Not a fan of Brussels sprouts?” Cyrus chuckled. He hadn’t met many people that were.
“Total’s $45.50; want a receipt?”
“Yes please.”
Jack shoved the receipt in the bag and pushed it to the edge of the counter.
Cyrus smiled.
“Thanks. Have a good day.”
Turning away, Jack grinned at the woman next in line. “Did you find everything alright today, Ma’am?”
***
Cyrus’ grandma was still in the kitchen when he got back, getting out eggs for breakfast. “Go on and sit down, Grandma. I can cook.”
His grandma scoffed. “Darling, you know I can’t sit still for long. Let’s see what you got.”
She exclaimed over the steaks and kissed Cyrus’ cheek for remembering all three of her items. Cyrus put the Brussels sprouts in the vegetable cabinet of the fridge and shoved the grocery bags into the massive pile already under the sink.
“What was that?”
“Hm?”
His grandma opened the fridge door. “What did you put in here?”
“Oh, just some Brussels sprouts. I usually just buy them for myself, but you can totally have some if you want. I’ll bring them to the barbecue.”
“No,” she insisted. “No, we don’t need these.”
She took them out of the fridge.
“It’s alright, Grandma. I used my own money, promise.”
“You shouldn’t have bought them.” She tried to put the bag in the trash, but Cyrus took it. “Your grandfather won’t like it.”
“What, is he allergic?” Cyrus asked, dodging out of the way as his grandma paced aimlessly around the kitchen.
“Just throw them away.”
“Why? That’s so wasteful.” His grandma hated waste, usually.
”What’s going on?” His grandpa’s booming voice came from the sofa.
“Nothing!” his grandma called back. “Just putting away the groceries.”
“Come in here, I can’t hear you.”
Cyrus’ grandma pointed to the trash can before stomping off to the living room. Laughing, Cyrus put the Brussels sprouts back in the fridge, hidden behind a bunch of tomatoes, and started on breakfast.
***
Later that evening, Cyrus and his grandparents made their way over to his parents’ yard, where the smell of smoke and sizzling meat was already wafting through the air.
“Hey there, Arthur. Ethel. Have a good weekend, Cyrus?” Cyrus' dad asked, looking up from the hotdogs he was grilling.
“Of course,” Cyrus said, kissing his grandma’s hair and setting her massive salad bowl on the table designated for sides. He held onto his own bag where he’d hidden the Brussels sprouts.
There were already several people scattered around the yard, even though Cyrus’ grandparents had insisted they be perfectly on time. What with it being a holiday, people clearly didn’t have anything better to do. Littered around were his parents’ colleagues, neighbors, family friends, and so forth, the same people he saw at every minor holiday party or celebration. They were the people Cyrus knew without always remembering why or ever stopping to consider if he actually liked them.
Just then, Cyrus’ mom came outside carrying a massive pitcher of punch. “Hi sweetie, happy Labor Day!”
Cyrus hugged her, “Happy Labor Day.”
“Help me bring out the desserts?”
Cyrus carried out tray after tray of cookies and pies, then headed back into the kitchen, “Mom, is Grandpa allergic to Brussels sprouts?”
His mom kept her eyes on the flower stems she was snipping off, “No, not that I know of. Why?”
“I bought some yesterday, and Grandma was super weird about it. Apparently, Grandpa hates them, but I don’t know what that has to do with me.”
One of the bits of flower stem went flying across the kitchen.
“Did you bring them?”
“Yeah, I think I’ll just cook them in here and put them out with the other sides; I have plenty to share.”
“You’re the only one who will eat them, though. Why don’t you just save them to cook tomorrow?”
“Mom, I’m sure other people like them. Won’t it be nice to have another dish?”
“I think it’ll be better if you just wait, sweetie.” She put the flowers in a vase and took them outside.
Ignoring her instructions, Cyrus slathered a pan in butter and started chopping.
***
Half an hour later, Cyrus smiled at an old woman leaning on the sticky drinks table as she blathered on about some story he’d already heard a hundred times. “Really, Mrs. Miller? I didn’t know you’d been to Mexico!” It was all they’d ever talked about.
“Oh, yes, and let me tell you, the resort was–”
“What the Hell?”
Cyrus’ attention snapped to a few feet away where his grandpa had just shouted. He was poking aggressively at the platter of satueéd Brussels sprouts. “Who brought this?”
The guests near the sides-table peered around each other to see what he was talking about, murmuring to each other and scowling. One of the women in Cyrus’ mother’s book club snatched up her son and dragged him out of the yard. Amelia, one of the neighbor girls Cyrus used to play with, threw her plate away as her parents came to see the problem.
“It’s fine, Dad,” Cyrus’ mother said, picking up the platter. “We’ll just throw them out.”
“What’ll that fix? Someone brought those into your home; aren’t you upset?”
“Of course,” She shot Cyrus a quick glare, “but let’s just get back to the barbecue, okay? There’s still plenty of food.”
“As if we’ll eat any of this now,” sneered the old woman Cyrus had been talking to.
“Have I missed something?” Cyrus asked, walking over to his grandpa. “Have we figured out they’re poisonous or…?”
His grandpa’s eyes went immediately to Cyrus’ plate. “You’re eating them?” he bellowed, turning to Cyrus’ mom. “How’ve you been raising him?”
“Of course I’m eating them; I cooked them. What’s the problem?”
“What’s the problem? They’re disgusting.”
“I think they’re delicious. Tomatoes are gross, in my opinion, but everyone keeps putting them in all the salads anyway.”
“Don’t be rude, Cyrus,” his grandma snapped.
His grandpa was turning red. “It’s not the same.”
“Why not?”
“Everyone likes tomatoes.”
“I just told you that I don’t…”
Cyrus’ grandpa snatched his soggy paper plate and threw it onto the ground. The guests who were sober enough to sense they might be intruding on a family matter wandered politely to the yard's edge while the rest watched the argument silently.
Cyrus’ mom grabbed his arm, shoving him towards the house. “Go inside; we can talk about consequences tonight. Dad, you know getting angry isn’t good for your heart. Why don’t I get you another drink?”
“Mom, what did I do? I don’t-”
“To your room, Cyrus.”
Despite being a relatively well-behaved child and an even better-behaved teenager, it wasn’t the first time Cyrus had been sent to his room during a family event. But every time, no matter how old he got, one of his parents or grandparents would sneak into his room after a short while to bring him something to eat and comfort him a little. They’d always made sure he knew he was still cared about, no matter how much he deserved the exile or how mad they were.
***
Cyrus had been lying listlessly on his bed for over an hour and a half, and still, no one had come to see him. It had never taken them longer than twenty minutes before. It was, he assumed, the first time no one thought he deserved to feel better, and what for? All he’d done was–
Tap, tap, tap. Cyrus slid off his bed and cautiously peered out his window. Amelia, the neighbor girl, was standing in the bushes outside, tapping against the glass. Cyrus opened the window.
“Thank goodness, I forgot which room was yours and knocked on four other windows.”
“Hi. Why… I mean, can I help you?”
“My brother’s having a real party while our parents are here, and his boyfriend promised to bring his amazing bacon-wrapped Brussels sprouts. Want to come?”
“I’m not really supposed to–”
“Your house is one story, and you’re not a toddler. Just climb out.”
He did. “So, do you know what everyone was freaking out about?” He asked. “I thought Brussels sprouts were healthy; everyone’s always telling me to eat more vegetables.” Amelia led the way towards her house. “They are healthy, very nutritious actually.”
“Maybe the smell’s the problem then?”
“They smell wonderful.”
“So, why–”
“Some people just don’t like them, Cyrus.”
“But why do they care if we do?”
“They probably just don’t have anything more interesting to worry about.”
“There has to be a better reason.”
Amelia’s house was nearly identical to Cyrus’. “There isn’t.” She opened her door. “Come on, I’ll introduce you, and we can finally get some decent food.”
Amelia hadn’t been exaggerating when she called the bacon-wrapped Brussels sprouts amazing, and after devouring fifteen of them, Cyrus decided they really couldn't be poisonous. He also decided that it was time to find his grandparents a hobby.
