And finally.
Brussels Sprouts.
Sunday was always special in our house when I was growing up.
Mom was a teacher and Dad was always busy with work.
But on Sundays, Mom would always make sure to cook a special meal.
Mmmmm... I can still taste some of those...
Pot roast, roast chicken, prime rib once in a while...
And always dessert. Mmmmm.... dessert.
And every meal had its food groups.
Ya gots yer salad, yer meat, yer potatoes and... yer veg.
I don't mind vegetables now. Some I even like.
Well... maybe "like" is too strong a word.
But back then? Not so much.
I'd eat canned beans (flavourless... probably why I ate them.)
Carrots were okay, even though my Mom's preferred way of cooking
all veggies was to boil them until they were reduced to mush.
Broccoli? Blech. Cauliflower? Double blech.
Don't get me started with asparagus.
And then there was.... Brussels sprouts.
I'm not kidding. I could choke down almost anything.
But those? My gag reflex would kick in.
Many's a time where I'd be sitting at the table, all alone.
Just me, an empty table, and an empty plate...
except for a lone Brussels sprout sitting stranded.
How many of you are familiar with the refrain:
"You're not leaving the table until you've finished your plate!"
How horrible a pronouncement that is!
I would cut a miniscule piece off that unholy orb and,
holding my nose with one hand and my fork with the other,
reluctantly place it... it in my mouth.
Valiantly, yet unsuccessfully trying to arrest the gag reflex,
I would somehow, after much effort, choke it down.
I would then sit there, in misery with tears streaming down my face,
until a parent would say, "Okay. Now the rest of it."
Are you kidding me???
They weren't.
So what does this have to do with Disney?
I'm getting there. Hang on.
On occasion, hmm... I can't say how often.
Too long ago.
On occasion, my parents would let my sister and I
go down to the basement to eat our Sunday meal there.
That's where our lone, black and white TV sat.
At the time, I remember thinking how wonderful it was
that they'd let me and my older sister eat away from the table.
Now, of course, being older and a parent myself,
I realize it was just their way of getting rid of their little hellions
so they could enjoy a nice meal with adult conversation.
But I digress...
My sister and I would load up our plates, head downstairs,
open up a couple of TV trays,
pull up a couple of chairs and...
Watch the Wonderful World of Disney!
How great is that?!?
Well, there was one caveat.
You had to have vegetables on your plate.
And every once in a long while, the dates would align,
and I would be allowed to watch TV (yay!) but
we would have Brussels sprouts for dinner (massive BOO!)
Eventually however, I came upon a solution.
It was simple really, and (in my mind) brilliant.
I would happily consume the wonderful repast at hand,
leaving nothing but the sphere of darkness on my plate.
Eventually, my sister would also finish her meal and,
at the next commercial, head upstairs for some dessert.
Quick as a wink, I'd grab the offending globule and pitch it under the couch.
Problem solved!
I didn't have to eat that... thing. And my parents didn't have to scold me.
Win, win!
And this worked for a while, too.
Until one fateful night.
My parents were downstairs watching TV.
My Mom says to my Dad. "What's that under the TV?"
At first they are puzzled.
A small, rock hard, misshapen, blackened ball.
I wonder what their faces looked like as realization dawned upon them.
My cat. My loyal, loving cat...
Had thrown me under the proverbial bus.
She had obviously found it under the couch and played with it.
Batting it about until it rolled under the TV and she got bored.
(In retrospect, I am pleased that someone or something if you prefer,
got some enjoyment out of the blasted thing.)
My parents confronted me with the evidence of my mis-doings the following day.
"So." They said. "Guess what we found under the TV last night."
I grew cold. I knew... I knew what they had found.
But I had to play dumb, in the hopes that they didn't know it was me!
"I don't know." I proclaimed. "What?"
"A Brussels sprout."
This was it. I was dead.
Goodbye cruel, Brussels sprouts infested world!
Luckily, however. The fickle finger of fate intervened.
My parents thought it was hysterical.
They imagined the cat playing with the sprout.
And they imagined me trying to get away with it.
I survived.
And I never had to eat another Brussels sprout again!
That's a good description! I like that.
'']
Had to go there, didn't you.
I say that too!
You have great parents. Mine would have been fuming, especially my mom.
That's awesome. My mom always told me a story about an uncle she had. She had to stay with him one night with some of her other cousins for some reason. He served them mushrooms at dinner. My mom and another cousin refused to eat them. He told them they would be there for breakfast the next morning. When they woke up, sure enough, he had mushrooms on the table for them for breakfast. To this day she still tells that story. She never made us eat our entire plates as kids or eat anything we refused. I've followed her lead to some extent with my own.
I like your Mom's uncle!
hope you get some good sleep soon! 
My husband knows that I NEED to get one! This past trip I got it from at the Poly in a souvenir bowl. They gave it in a separate cup, which was nice so I didn't have a sticky bowl to carry around! 
Who ARE these people??
Wow, Disney magic is real!
