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POPSTROKE

BarTenders Eatery

Brussels
Sprouts

Oven roasted, with balsamic glaze and goat cheese

Brussels Sprouts, oven roasted, with balsamic glaze and goat cheese

As a girl, I hated Brussels sprouts with the righteous fury of a small dictator. My mother boiled them gray. I hid them in my napkin, in my pockets, once in the family dog, who also declined.

Forty years later, on a cool November night, I was walking off the 9th green with my neighbor Dale, a man who keeps a spreadsheet of his putting stats and considers it light reading.

"Sprouts," Dale said, steering us to the patio at the turn. "Trust me." I did not trust him. I had seen his spreadsheet.

Then they arrived. Oven roasted Brussels sprouts, the outer leaves gone dark and crisp at the edges, the hearts tender, almost sweet. A glossy drizzle of balsamic glaze, deep and syrupy, clinging to every crevice. And over the top, soft little clouds of goat cheese, tangy and creamy, melting just slightly into the warmth beneath. Nothing gray about it. Nothing boiled. Nothing that belonged in a napkin.

I ate one. I ate six. I stopped looking at the scorecard.

On the 10th I had an uphill putt across a slope that fell away to the right, the kind I usually three-putt out of sheer anxiety. I aimed a cup outside and let it ride. Birdie.

Dale wrote it down in his notebook. Somewhere, my mother is very, very confused.

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