Gubbröra?
I've been trying to figure the pronunciation of that for an hour now. Goo-brrr-err-ah?
Well, the chef (hopefully ex-chef) in me will try anything. Bugs, brains, probably even that bile-a-hol that native tribe makes, I'll down it.
The little boy in me who still won't eat Brussel sprouts, though, is shivering!
(True story...
My Danish grandma, who lived with us in Canada for a number of years when I was a child, was taking care of my little sister and myself when I was about 10 years old as both my parents had some away time, not together as they had divorced by this time, but at the same time...and not in prison if that's what you were thinking by "away time".
Grandma lived with my dad, (who, as I said, was away) and made us dinner there one night.
Frikadela, one of my all time favourites. My mom got the recipe from her...for the meat, but not for the vinegary gravy grandma made, so while they are still
good when mom makes 'em, they are not the same as grandma's.
So, anyways, she makes the meal, with the entire panoply of Christmas dinner veg; carrot-turnip mash, :cry :...yams,
...and
Brussel sprouts.
My lifelong Nemesis'. Nemesis's? Nemesi? Plural anyhow.
I refused to eat them.
It was July...it wasn't Christmas, there were no presents for anyone to threaten withholdure of.
(I would always have to force one down at Christmas, gagging while Schnapps-drinking adults laughed at this peculiar torture, then I would sulk and pick at the rest of the meal, rolling a couple under the couch when noone was looking.)
Grandma said I couldn't leave the table until I had eaten all of them.
They wouldn't fit under the oven and stood out on the linoleum.
I remember my 4 year old sister kicking me under the table and whispering at me exaggeratedly (?) to eat them.
I think I fell asleep at the table that night.
And, no lie, I wasn't allowed to eat for three days. At least grandma didn't provide food for three days, I just took what I wanted from the cupboards when she wasn't looking (She knew, I'm sure, she treated me like gold all the rest of the time she was alive. She sarcastically called me her "perfect boy" all the time). But the plate with the brussel sprouts wrapped in Saran-wrap was presented to me at the three meals of the day for three days until my dad, and not-so-evil-step-mother got back.(Step-mom fed me hot-dogs right away.)
I can remember my dad laughing his ass off in the front room when she told him all about it.
But I still got the belt...
Frickin' Brussels and their stupid frickin' vegetable inventions!
True story.)
eat coconut. 
("Love the taste, it's the consistency I don't like.") 
