The raw, green, rotten, reeking, rancid, putrid odor radiates into my nostrils still to this day. Brussels sprouts were the death of me. The sheer presence of brussels sprouts would cause my parents and me to be fighting at each and every meal. I dreaded dinner time each night. I would go to any lengths to avoid being among those disgusting, filthy-looking green sprouts.

It started with arguments in my home because my parents did not believe my aversion. They believed that my hatred of brussels sprouts was purely psychological and had nothing to do with my senses. This problem was not something my parents could simply solve, despite the fact that it was partially a psychological issue, and there was no magic potion that may make the taste more appealing.

It didn’t help that it was one of my family’s favorite dishes. Therefore, they were willing to exert all effort possible to satisfy my taste in brussels. My family prepared them in various ways, including roasting, broiling, air frying, and even grilling. It reached the point that I would throw up every time I tried those sickening brussels. Evidently, I was not being heard by my parents. They failed to grasp the simple reality that I didn’t like even the smell of the deep, repellent, distinct thick layers of leaves. Every night, I would argue with them, pleading with them to stop trying to force me to eat those vile, decaying-looking greens. I repeatedly heard, “you eat like a preschooler” and “you are too old to be eating this way.” The situation deteriorated to the point that we had to inform the doctor about my “poor eating habits,” as my mom loved to remark every time we went in for my yearly check-up.

The doctor used to tell me, “just take three large bites; that’s all your mom is asking for.” It was always something with me and my eating habits. Either I wasn’t eating enough vegetables, or I was consuming too much junk. After three painful years of going to the doctor, my mom threatened to take me to a nutritionist or a food therapist. Despite any attempts to change me, my dislike of brussels sprouts would not disappear from my mind. While I was eating, I felt pressured. I was being forced to eat food that made me heave. “How could life be so unfair?” My parents cruelly examined me at the kitchen table to ensure I finished every last bite and didn’t throw anything away or down the drain.

Occasionally, I would spend hours staring blankly at my disgusting dish of discolored coatings of cabbage. These were the evenings I was most fearsome of. If only there were a way out, I would not have to live this way.

And I think I would have had to live that way forever, if Katie, our unforeseen hairdresser hero, hadn’t become an unexpected mediator for our family standoff. One day at Katie’s salon, I waited for her to arrive at her station while sitting in my comfortable leather chair that swivelled. Since Katie and I like conversing, she switched the blow dryer on and off so I could hear her. On the day I arrived, I had just had one of my “rough nights.” I started telling her about it while I sat next to my mom, irritated that I was resurfacing the argument.

Katie then was doing my mom’s hair while she was telling us about an article she had just read. Katie commented, “You can either love them or hate them; that is simply how your taste buds operate,” in reference to brussels sprouts. She then went on to show my mom and me articles about this being scientifically proven. My mom’s little smirk, as she looked at me, confirmed that this was one of my greatest moments in life. I had been waiting for my entire life for news like this. Although my mom and I had no idea if the scientific study was true, nevertheless, it allowed us to back off of our stance in the brussels sprout war.

I am still a picky eater, and learning about brussels sprouts was not a magic pill that changed my eating habits for life. It did allow me to move on and somehow allowed my mom to accept my picky eating habits, and to be more flexible and accommodating. She stopped forcing me to eat brussels sprouts, and I agreed to come up with a supplement. Seasonings became my best friend, and I agreed to try a few new vegetables (other than brussels sprouts, of course).

Recently, when my family was looking down at their plates, I slowly put a new, broiled, hunter green, crispy length in my mouth, and I am shocked to tell you I was not disappointed with the flavor. With a touch of Parmesan cheese, asparagus had been transformed from frightening to scrumptious. My parents froze, unable to pick anything up with their own forks because their side eyes were focused on me, my fork, and my asparagus. My family was keeping their mouths shut as I was filling mine. My gentle smile allowed them to look up from their plates without being worried I was going to complain.

We ate the rest of the meal in peace. “Pass the asparagus, please,” was all my parents needed to know that the brussels sprouts war had officially ended.