I don’t know who decided that Brussels sprouts would be the official vegetable of 2025, but I would like to have a word. Preferably far away from any roasting pan.

Every restaurant menu I glanced at toward the end of the year whether it was holiday prix-fixe, catered luncheons, tasting menus, “chef’s special” situations, was aggressively trying to feed me Brussels sprouts. Shaved. Charred. Roasted. Glazed. Paired with bacon; as if bacon could redeem them. It was relentless. Like the universe whispering, “Have you reconsidered?” No. I have not.

Let me be clear. I do not eat Brussels sprouts. They smell wrong to me. They taste wrong. They look wrong. Something about them feels biologically misaligned with my spirit. They are cabbage-adjacent but smug about it. They arrive sizzling and confident, as if they belong. They do not.

And yet, because I am generous, evolved, and an objectively excellent hostess, I ordered them for my dinner party. For others. I placed them lovingly in the center of the table, nodded approvingly, and pretended they didn’t offend me on a cellular level. This is who I am; someone who will serve you the vegetable she loathes because she wants you to feel nourished and cared for. Growth.

But privately? I felt haunted. Like Brussels sprouts were following me through 2025, popping up uninvited, symbolic of something else entirely. You know the thing you don’t like, don’t want, didn’t ask for but are told is “good for you”? That.

By December, I started to wonder if Brussels sprouts were a metaphor. For compromise. For endurance. For things we politely accept even when our inner voice is screaming absolutely not. I tolerated a lot last year. Some of it necessary. Some of it deeply Brussels sprout–coded.

So as I look ahead to 2026, I have a wish. Not for perfection. Not even for ease. Just fewer Brussels sprouts both literal and figurative. Less forcing myself to acquire tastes that don’t suit me. Less pretending I’ll come around. More honoring what I actually know about myself.

I will still be generous. I will still host beautifully. I will still put things on the table for others that I don’t personally enjoy. But I reserve the right to quietly pass the bowl.

Here’s to a year with vegetables we choose. And to leaving the Brussels sprouts behind.