It isn't uncommon for time to sneak stealthily past us, like some nimble carnivorous feline. It is also not uncommon for time to come back and bite us in the posterior, again like a carnivorous feline. Latent memories, memories that our mind prefers to brush under the proverbial rug, lock up with the proverbial key, and demolish with the proverbial thermonuclear device, often creep back from the recesses of the mind and throttle our consciousness with their horrific intolerability. These memories can include such things as the death of a loved one, a really scary movie, an incident of massive public humiliation, or a traumatic childhood experience. As far as I'm concerned, my repressed, disturbing, and mentally tortuous memory centers around one seemingly harmless thing: the Brussels sprout. The school I attended as a youth was the deceptively misnomered International High School (which wasn't really a High School at all) located in the quaint harbor town of Great Yarmouth, Britain.

Life in a British private school was objectionable on many fronts. They made us wear uniforms. They made us sleep during naptime. The made us spell 'color' with a 'u.' All in all, perhaps the greatest injustice wrought upon us was lunchtime.

The cookery department of the International High School took a whole new angle on the task of scholastic food preparation. While some schools waste time frying chicken patties, or grilling hot dogs, the staff at my school opted to focus on boiling everything they possibly could. This resulted in every meal consisting of a slice of meat that would make Dr. Scholl's proud, complimented with peas, tomatoes that vomited when you cut them and Brussels sprouts.

Lunchtime was regimented by my teacher, a large, angry woman, whose name I have chosen to forget, for any number of reasons. She wasn't evil, per se. She wasn't the type of person to attempt to conquer the planet, or drop-kick babies off the Chrysler building, but to a four-year-old child, her stout powerful frame, her steely stare, and her screeching yell qualified her as a monster rivaling the wolfman, Dracula, Godzilla, and Winston Churchill.

My first encounter with the despicable greenery was also, not coincidentally, my first day at the school. Lunchtime came about, and a cart with plates, cutlery, and several steaming pots of food was rolled in. The foodstuffs were distributed, and my teacher began her patrol of the room. I was only four at the time, and thus, my sense of adventure had not yet been thoroughly squashed. I decided to try the food, attempting in vain to ignore its strong resemblance to medical waste. The meal went along swimmingly, until I unassumingly popped one of the demonic little green orbs in my mouth.

My taste buds exploded into a universe of bitterness, sogginess, and complete and utter despair. My eyes began watering frantically as I grasped madly for my glass of apple juice. Eventually, I managed to wash the hateful thing down my throat. Content that my suffering was over I turned back to my plate, only to find four more of the insipid little things staring back at me, challenging me, threatening me.

For the following year, the same scenario repeated itself every day. I would receive my plate, and calmly explain to my esteemed educator that I didn't like Brussels sprouts because they were evil, evil things that tasted like feet.

"Waddya mean you don't like them?!" she'd reply, shooting into my retinas a glower that would melt my soul like the arc of the covenant melts nazis. "You can't know wether or not you like them until you've tried them! Go on, eat one!"

I'd then try to explain, in vain, that I had tried them before. Every single day of my miserable existence. I knew I didn't like them. I'd stare defiantly into her squinty gray eyes, stating my argument with as much eloquence and candor as a kindergartener missing his two front teeth can muster. I'd then realize whom I was yelling at, and quickly shut up, and finish my sprouts.

All attempts to avoid eating my sprouts were in vain. I couldn't just leave them on my plate, I'd be accused of not eating my vegetables (apparently the whole plate of PEAS that accompanied every lunch didn't constitute enough legumes for a child's meal). I couldn't hide them in my napkins. My teacher was a bit too cunning to fall for that. I eventually figured out how to smash a Brussels sprout under my fork in such a was that it adhered flatly to the bottom, but that only eliminated one of the little rascals, and they came in gangs of four or five. I was only four, and already I had come across the one immutable, undefeatable constant of life. And it was a ¾-inch-diameter globe of leafy vileness.

My experiences with the spherical vegetarian menace have not left me unscathed. I took a lot from these episodes. I learned important and inspiring life lessons, such as "Don't even bother arguing, because the majority of the time, people are too pigheaded to listen to your logic" and "Horrible things will happen to you all the time, live with it." It was these lessons that turned me into the positive, assertive, mentally balanced person I am today. I mean, would a crazy, irrational, obsessive person dedicate two and a half pages of writing to harping on his childhood experiences with Brussels sprouts? I think not.