I love to garden. Being outside, moving dirt around. SOIL – I forgot, in farming, we call it soil.

A few years ago, I was out in the garden and my brussel sprouts just weren’t ready to harvest yet. But I had a craving for the little guys. So after moving the SOIL around, I went to the grocery store and got myself a thing of frozen brussel sprouts to enjoy.

Don’t judge me. Yes, I know fresh is better, but I didn’t have time that day – so I got frozen. But before lunch, I needed to take a shower. As I was washing off the SOIL from my day of the garden, I started thinking of the delicious lunch that awaited me. and while showering, started to write a poem about my brussel sprouts. It wrote itself, and I rushed the shower and getting dressed to put it on paper. It basically wrote itself and within 5 minutes, had this masterpiece…..

To My Brussel Sprouts

Poor Baby Brussel Sprouts, never had the chance to fully grow,

How big you would have gotten, well, we’ll never really know;

Some Big Green Giant (get it?) came and ripped you off the stem,

But he got a fair market price, who am I to condemn?

His deaf ears not hearing your pleading and not hearing you whine,

His only concern was my hunger, for on you, for lunch, I will dine;

It’s not my fault they stole you and put you in butter,

But the 1^st one was so good, I absolutely  must have another…..

I like you steamed, even baked and perhaps sautéed,

My two children don’t like you, they run away screaming and afraid.

But don’t worry baby brussel  sprouts, it’s not your fault,

They don’t understand how good you are with butter and a pinch of salt.

I sometimes miss you with my fork and you roll around on my plate,

There are so many wonderful dishes with you that  I can create;

I’m still going eat you, maybe 10, perhaps a dozen,

As I wait for the cabbage to grow, you know him, he’s your cousin.

So I’ll continue to eat my baby brussel sprouts,

Can we make you the State Vegetable of Delaware, I have my doubts;

I’ll plant you and I’ll grow you and eat you right out of the garden,

It’s best to eat you when you ripen, before you grow too old and harden.

• Poems