Brussels (with an “s”) sprouts. That’s right. What we who worked in restaurant kitchens used to call fart blossoms. Suddenly they’re everywhere. Last night at Savannah’s The Sparetime to celebrate the bar’s one-year anniversary along with a show by Mary Hartman — who has a most subtle way with pen and ink and graphite even when she’s drawing a forklift — I ordered and ate two plates-worth. The Spare Time has taken it up a notch or two from my home presentation. Theirs are “crispy brussels sprouts with herbed creme fraishe and kimchee puree.”
If only I could grow them. I know they’re described as miniature cabbage (and are first-cousins to collard greens, broccoli, kale and kohlrabi, all of which i CAN grow)), but my edible buds, alas, look more like M&M’S. Sigh.
“Did you see ‘Makers’ on PBS?” my NYC friend Amy Stone writes me about last night’s fantastic documentary on the women’s movement, rather, “Women Who Make America,” the program’s curious and somehow present-tense subtitle. “And we were part of it.”
I did see it, but was I part of it? I certainly lived through it but more from the fringes than the center. I marched in D.C. but I never burned my bra (I wanted to). I went to a consciousness-raising group but I never used a speculum (too close up and personal). I did have a crush on Gloria Steinem (who didn’t?). And I did watch — with great glee — the heralded tennis match between Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs (new crush: Billie Jean).
The PBS footage is outstanding. One of the best lines comes from Bella Abzug: “True equality will come not when a female Einstein is recognized as quickly as a male Einstein, but when a female schlemiel is promoted as quickly as a male schlemiel.”
I rest my case. Check out “Makers.”