That's the caption to one of my favorite New Yorker cartoons. Obviously, broccoli boiled within an inch of its life is a misery. Give it to the French, who could make shoe leather edible, and you get Timbales de Brocoli, florets pureed with cream, egg, spring onions, s/p, and a pinch of nutmeg, which cooks up like custard in adorable little ramekins. It could make even the finickiest eater a fan.
