More Proof That I Am Weird

There is no hope for me. The only thing left is to accept myself for what I am and hope that others will understand. I like Brussels sprouts.

When you mention Brussels sprouts to people, a common reaction is, “Bleah! Yuck!” My reaction is, “Yummy! MmmmmMMMMmmm!” I actually like the stuff. They don’t even have to be doctored up with sauces and things. Just cook them thoroughly, put some salt on them, put them on a plate in front of me and give me a fork and some Beano to kill the gas. That’s all I ask.

Oh, but it gets worse.

To the average person, the gift of a fruitcake at Christmas means (1) something to pass on to someone they owe a gift to but don’t really like all that much, or (2) something that will sit forgotten in the cupboard until it turns to stone. To me, a good fruitcake is a delicious wintertime treat. Notice I say a GOOD fruitcake. Even I draw the line at the usual supermarket garbage. But if it’s made by Trappist monks (with real Kentucky bourbon) or a fancy bakery somewhere, I will devour it.

When I suggest to normal people that they should try the stuff because it’s good, they usually look at me like I just arrived from Planet Crazy, wrinkle their noses and say, “I hate fruitcake.”

“But this isn’t your usual fruitcake,” I protest. “This is good.”

“Ack! No thanks.”

So I almost never share this goodie with anyone. It’s not that I’m stingy or anything; I just can’t be bothered going through all that trouble just to be left holding the cake. Oh well! It just means more for me — with real whipped cream and a mug of gourmet coffee.