Brussels sprouts more than leaves
This post is dedicated to Dinah's friends C. and M. in North Vancouver.

I just got some horrifying news. I hope you're sitting down. My author, Melanie Jackson, recently served Brussels sprouts to dinner guests. Like, what is she trying to do, alienate the planet? My North Van buddies C. and M. heard about it and are in therapy right now.

Melanie remains irritatingly blasé. "Brussels sprouts are good," she insists. "Would you like to try this nummy recipe I found, where you make them with slivered almonds?"

"Sure," I reply sweetly. "That's number two on my list of choice things to do today -- right after strapping myself to the Skytrain tracks."

Gad. You can see what I have to put up with.

Here's what C. and M.'s dad wrote in his e-mail to me: "M., with a shocked look on his face said, 'But Dinah doesn't like Brussel sprouts.' C. piped up, 'Don't you remember, when Dinah was making the Brussels sprouts disappear at the dinner table, she threw the last one out the window where the bad guy was trying to get into the house. It went into his mouth and he fell into the yard. The neighbours reported a man dressed all in black, limping and chewing something with a disgusted look on his face.' "

Ah yes, how fondly I remember that episode. It was near the start of The Mask on the Cruise Ship. Brussels sprouts as Scud missiles: now that's a good use for 'em.