Honey Mustard Brussels Sprouts Salad -- The Week That Called for Something with Bite

Heat dome over Pendleton this week. Hundred-and-five inland. Caleb had baseball practice Tuesday and Thursday. I drove.

Caleb, 7, wants to be a firefighter still. Has not deviated. Hazel, 4, chaos incarnate. Put a peanut butter sandwich in the DVD player Wednesday. Showed zero remorse.

Pasta salad for the cookout. Italian dressing. Olives. The standard.

Mom called Sunday. We talked while she was putting up tomatoes from the garden. She is sixty-something and gardening like she is forty.

Ryan came home from work. Dinner was on the stove. The basics held.

Hazel and I had a hard moment Tuesday at homework time. She is in a season of testing limits. We worked through it. We always do. She is mine.

Wednesday morning meal prep — Sunday afternoon, hours of containers. The freezer is full. The future-me thanks present-me. Donna taught me this routine. Donna's freezer was always full. Donna saved her sanity with quart bags labeled in Sharpie.

I went for a walk Sunday morning before the kids got up. Half an hour. The fog was burning off. I needed it. Some weeks I get the walk in. Some weeks I don't. The week tells me which.

Ryan came home tired Wednesday. He showered, ate, sat on the couch, was asleep by eight. Standard for a Marine who has been up since four-thirty for PT and stayed late for a brief. The schedule is the schedule. The body adapts because it has to.

I made a casserole for a neighbor whose husband is deployed. I dropped it off. She cried. I told her, eat the casserole, baby. The food is the saying. The casserole was a mostly-frozen tater-tot situation that took fifteen minutes of effort and six months of practice to perfect.

I unpacked another box from storage Tuesday afternoon. Three years on this base and I am still finding things I packed in Twentynine Palms. Military-wife archeology — every box is a layer of geological history. I found a ceramic dish from Lejeune still wrapped in newspaper from 2020.

Caleb watched the firefighters at a school visit Wednesday and came home buzzing. He is going to be one. I have known this since he was four. Some kids tell you who they are early.

I went to the commissary Saturday morning. Got the grocery haul under sixty bucks for the week, which is a small victory. The cashier knows me. We talked about her grandkids while she scanned the chicken thighs and the family-size box of pasta. Small-town energy on a Marine base in California.

Ryan's friends came over Friday for a beer. I made wings and chips. They demolished both. Standard Marine appetite — they eat like they are still on rations. The kitchen looked like a battlefield by the end. They cleaned up. Marines clean up. Donna would have been impressed.

The PCS rumors are starting again. The official orders will come in a few months. We could move. We could stay. The waiting is the worst part. Three years here and I have learned to not put down deep roots in any military town. Nineteen-year-old me would not have believed how good I have gotten at packing.

Base housing is base housing. Beige walls, beige carpet, beige expectations. The dryer venting is in a stupid place. The kitchen has no dishwasher. We make it work.

The kitchen counter has a chip in it from someone before us. Some military housing thing. I have stopped asking what. The chip is fine. The whole kitchen is provisional. We are renting from Uncle Sam.

Donna sent a recipe card in the mail this week. She has been doing this for years. The recipes go in the binder. The binder is full. The newest one is for a green bean casserole that uses fresh green beans and fried shallots and which I will absolutely make for the next holiday.

The pasta salad did its job at the cookout — it always does — but honestly, the recipe that’s been living rent-free in my head all week is this one. Donna’s latest card was for a green bean casserole, which I’ll get to, but the heat dome over Pendleton had me craving something that could actually stand up to a hundred-and-five degrees without wilting into sadness on a picnic table. This honey mustard Brussels sprouts salad has that same sharp, no-nonsense energy I needed after a week of baseball practice runs, deployed-neighbor casseroles, and a four-year-old with zero remorse about the DVD player — it’s the kind of dish that doesn’t apologize for having an opinion.

Honey Mustard Brussels Sprouts Salad

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 0 min | Total Time: 15 min | Servings: 6

Ingredients

• 1 1/2 lbs Brussels sprouts, trimmed and thinly shaved or sliced
• 1/2 cup dried cranberries
• 1/3 cup sunflower seeds or sliced almonds
• 1/4 cup shaved Parmesan
• 3 strips cooked bacon, crumbled (optional)
• 3 tablespoons honey
• 2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
• 3 tablespoons apple cider vinegar
• 3 tablespoons olive oil
• 1 small clove garlic, minced
• Salt and black pepper to taste

Instructions

1. Shave the sprouts. Using a sharp knife, mandoline, or the slicing disc on a food processor, thinly slice the Brussels sprouts and transfer to a large bowl. Separate any layers that clump together.
2. Make the dressing. In a small bowl or jar, whisk together the honey, Dijon mustard, apple cider vinegar, olive oil, and minced garlic until smooth and emulsified. Season with salt and pepper.
3. Dress the salad. Pour the dressing over the shaved sprouts and toss well to coat. Let sit for at least 5 minutes — the vinegar will gently soften the sprouts and mellow their bitterness.
4. Add toppings. Fold in the dried cranberries, sunflower seeds or almonds, and crumbled bacon if using. Top with shaved Parmesan just before serving.
5. Taste and adjust. Give it a final taste and add more salt, pepper, or a drizzle of honey if needed. Serve immediately or refrigerate up to 24 hours — it holds up well, which makes it ideal for make-ahead meal prep.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 210 | Protein: 7g | Fat: 11g | Carbs: 24g | Fiber: 5g | Sodium: 220mg