I’ve finally seen the truth about Brussels sprouts.

And that truth is that I’ve been cooking sprouts wrong my entire life.

Now, it would probably be more accurate to say that I’ve been cooking sprouts wrong for the past five years, because I came quite late to the sprout game. To my knowledge, I was never fed sprouts as a child. My only awareness of the mini-cabbages was through American movies, in which kids bloody hated the things. Every depiction of them was negative, if not traumatic. There were never neutral positions on sprouts. They were the common enemy of children around the world. I learned to hate them before I’d even seen one on my plate, let alone put one in my mouth.

And I didn’t set out to get all preachy about anything other than vegetables here, but probably a lesson in this: sprouts got a terrible wrap in the media I consumed, which directly influenced my opinion on them.

It wasn’t until Mum started making baconny cabbage that things changed. I’d been wary of cabbage for a long time too, but the addition of bacon took away all my misgivings. It was a fried, bacon-flavoured slop that opened up my world.  Cabbage was my gateway vegetable to sprouts because I reasoned that, if I liked cabbage, I’d like it in miniature form.

And I did.

I started wilting sprouts with butter and oil and bacon, and I really, really enjoyed it. I would chuck the four ingredients in a small egg-boiling-sized saucepan and simmer down until they went slightly mushy. Sure, it took its time. And yes, it was tricky trying to balance cooking the sprouts all the way through with not wanting to burn the outers. And sometimes I didn’t get that balance right.

But I was hooked.

I lamented about how long I spent avoiding these cute little cabbages; all that time I’d wasted. But I made up for it. It was a regular feature on my dinner table/the couch cushion I rested on my lap so I could eat while watching TV.

I was smug. I’d seen the light. I’d realised the errors of my past and had overcome them.

But then I saw this new way of cooking them and it changed everything.

I came across it in a free Coles magazine, which always fills me with delight and lofty culinary aspirations. I picture the Mediterranean feasts I could make or the themed dinner parties I could host. I get wild ideas about rhubarb. I look at pears differently. And sometimes I do legitimately believe I’m going to cook a Coles-inspired banquet for my charming and sophisticated adult friends who wear tasteful jumpers.

I mean, that’s yet to happen, but it’s fun pretending.

Because reading the magazines isn’t so much about the recipes, but the enjoyment of perfectly-plated food. I spread reading them out for weeks as I pore over the artful way the made-with-Coles-ingredients dishes are laid out on the crockery my inner-housewife wets her metaphorical pants over. It’s almost pornographic for me. I mean, it combines two of my greatest loves – food and magazines that tell me how to live my life.

And, as someone who had very limited layout restrictions to stick to back in her newspaper days, I must say that I do get a little kick out of the composition of the pages. Sometimes I joke about being a terrible journo – my spelling is appalling, I hate bothering people and I tend to tell long-winded, had-to-follow and anti-climatic stories in conversations – but I do love me a good page layout. And I find the smell of newsprint extremely alluring. I would absolutely buy a newsprint-scented candle.

But anyway, I digress.

I came across the sprouts method and it legitimately changed my life, which is what I told – at unnecessary length – the poor person who sits at the desk beside me at work the next day. I also told my sisters. And my inner sanctum of fierce female friends (calling your group “fierce female friends” makes you all sound like highly-successful but incredible likeable trailblazers – like the cast of Big Little Lies or Oceans Eight). I told everyone about it.

It was a religious experience and I was compelled to spread the word. I wanted people to see the light. I wanted them to open their hearts and let this miracle into their lives.

So here it is, the celestial wisdom of sprouts: a combination of water and butter.

I know, but bear with me.

First, halve your sprouts and whack them into a lidded frypan flat-faced down. Completely cover the bottom of the frypan, because you’re going to want as many of these babies as possible. Then you add like a third of a cup of water, maybe a touch more if you’re dealing with some thicc mummas.

Then add butter. I think the recipe called for about three tablespoons of butter, but I believe in being liberal with dairy-based fats. Life is there to be lived and, damn it, butter is solidified life, so take a big spoonful of it. If you’re doing this yourself – and I strongly advise that you do – dollop the butter in the gaps between the sprouts until your heart feels full and your zest for life returns.

Now, I realise that this butter and water combo may sound extremely odd to you, because I also had my doubts. I was a sceptic, but now I’m a convert. You just have to have a little faith.

Close the lid on your little sprouts, bringing the pan up to a medium heat. After maybe five or ten minutes, the water will have evaporated. By this time, the water will have softened the sprouts, cooking them all the way through. And then it’s the butter’s time to shine. Rather than settling for soggy sprouts, let them brown up in the goo of the gods. After a few more minutes, your sprouts will be cooked completely but will have an outer crispness that hugs your soul.

Enjoy with a big hunk of steak, on a sanga with brown bread and freshly-cooked chicken breast or out of a novelty-sized mug.