Hands up those who recall sitting dejectedly at the family dining table, alone, long after everyone else had finished and was already watching Bellbird on TV? Sitting there. Staring at a small pile of mushy green peas, or broad beans and knowing that somehow you had to force this stuff down your throat.

Your Mum and Dad said you would NEVER be allowed to leave the table until you’d eaten it all.  

These memories and more were regurgitated this past weekend.

We were in Castlemaine around lunchtime and wandered into a pub to feed the inner beast.

I’m not usually much of a fish eater, but occasionally I’ll give it a whack and am often surprised how nice it is. 

So, to surprise Mrs Whacked I ordered the fisherman’s basket and in a remarkably short time a nice young bloke came staggering into the restaurant with a platter which held what looked like half the marine harvest from Port Phillip Bay. There were platters of chips, a tub of tartare sauce, a pile of vegies to one side and in the middle a mountain of fishy things …all governed by a tall spike of prawns. A teetering totem pole of crustaceans. 

Beneath this construction was a great gathering of scallops, fish, mussels, oysters, calamari, scampi, fish rings and some items which needed more research to be accurately identified.

“Did we invite some other people?” I asked the waiter who stood in clear admiration of this dish. “I don’t think I’m going to get through all this.”

He gave me an encouraging pat on the back and gave a cheeky nautical snort as he returned to the kitchen.

But, that’s not what I wanted to talk about.

After getting out my Swiss Army Knife, and helped by my Swiss Army Wife, I began whittling the leaning tower of prawns down to size when my attention turned to the vegies. I saw lots of cut carrots. No worries there. Some odd discs of corn. Good oh.

But lurking behind the shiny dish of tartare sauce were two glutinously green orbs.

“Aaaargh. Are these what I think they are?” My brain was playing the shower scene music from Psycho: “REEE REE REE!”

B r u s s e ls  s p r o u t s!

I may well have been just five the last time I eyeballed a brussels sprout on my plate. My memories are of me staring at it for hours, days, weeks, months until it became so desiccated it blew away on a passing breeze. The truth, of course, is that I probably tossed it out the kitchen window where it choked a passing innocent kelpie.

What kind of Satanist thought these things were food? Oh, yes, on many occasions, clever dick gastronomes said they were delicious … wrapped in bacon, garlic and asbestos and cooked on high for two days. So that the gag-inducing, vom-creating flavour is totally disguised.

I, however, am a gastric-gnome (a little ill) with some foods.

Mrs Whack stirred me relentlessly, threatening to order lamb’s fry or something similarly offal unless I ate these sickly spheres.

So, I drowned them totally in tartare sauce and swallowed them whole. Unchewed.

I was out and proud. I ate brussell sprouts and did not die even once. Next time I might even give the oysters a go.

WAYNE GREGSON