Growing up, nothing grossed me out more than the feeling of a soggy sphere of Brussels sprout dissolving on my tongue. I can still taste the bitter mush as I struggled to swallow it down – wincing in agony as I forked another chunk. Back then, it seemed the only way to serve a dish of Brussels Sprouts was to boil and serve. Overcooked, unseasoned globules of grossness topped with a dollop of butter (if you were lucky). I vowed to never punish my tastebuds again with the sour sting of Brussels sprouts when I was old enough to cook for myself.…