Brussel Sprouts


I remember as a child, my mother lecturing me about the starving black babies in Africa and how much they would appreciate the vegetables that I was nudging reluctantly around my plate. I would have willingly offered up my Brussel Sprouts to them. I hated them.

Now, here I was, giving the same lecture, and like before, it was falling on deaf ears.

He dug around in his bowl, finding a choice morsel here and there, and spilling the rest onto the floor.

“There are poor babies in Africa …” I ranted.

The parrot chewed on a sunflower seed, oblivious.

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