The Kitten Who Grew a Forest

Lila hated a vegetable, but one day, everything changed

Lila was a girl of steadfast opinions. Broccoli was acceptable, peas were passable, but Brussels sprouts were tiny, green, and treasonous. “They look like grumpy little cabbages,” she’d declare, pushing her plate. “And they smell like soggy socks!”

Her parents tried everything. Sprouts disguised as “fairy houses,” sprouts with cheese, sprouts roasted until they were crispy. Lila remained a Brussels sprout fortress, unmoved.

Everything changed when a tiny, orange-striped kitten, no bigger than a teacup, stumbled into their garden. Lila named her Cinnamon. Cinnamon was curious, clumsy, and followed Lila everywhere, her tiny purr a constant motor.

One afternoon, Lila’s mum planted a tray of strange-looking seeds. “What are those?” Lila asked, Cinnamon batting at her shoelace.

“Magic trees,” Mum said with a wink. “But they’re very shy. They only grow for gardeners with a brave heart.”

Intrigued, Lila helped water the soil. Cinnamon watched, tail twitching. Days passed, and little green shoots appeared. They grew into sturdy stalks with big, fan-like leaves. But where were the trees?

Then, one morning, Lila saw them. Tiny, round buds began to form where the leaves joined the stalk. They started the size of peas, then marbles, then… “Mum! Those are Brussels sprouts!” Lila cried, feeling betrayed.

“They are Brussels sprouts,” Mum admitted. “But they’re our forest. A miniature forest for a miniature explorer.” She nodded towards Cinnamon, who was sitting beneath the tallest stalk, gazing up at the sprouts with wide, golden eyes.

Cinnamon seemed to think they were the most fascinating things in the world. She’d pat at the low-hanging ones with a soft paw, chasing dappled sunlight through the leaves. She’d sit beneath them, looking like a tiny lioness in a jungle.

“She likes it here,” Mum said softly. “This is her kingdom. The sprouts are her jungle canopy.”

Lila looked at the sprouts differently. They weren’t on a plate; they were on a stalk, a home. She reached out and touched one. It was firm and cool, like a green jewel.

The day came to harvest the “forest.” Lila felt a pang of sadness. “But Cinnamon’s kingdom!”

“Even queens need a feast,” Dad said, joining them. He showed Lila how to twist the sprouts off the stalk gently. Cinnamon weaved around their legs, chirping.

In the kitchen, the sprouts were washed. “Each one is a little parcel of the forest,” Mum said. She sliced them in half, revealing their intricate, whorled pattern. “See? Like tiny, magical trees inside!”

They tossed them in olive oil, salt, and a sprinkle of paprika—“fairy dust,” Mum whispered. They roasted them until the outsides were crispy and caramelized, and the kitchen smelled nutty and warm, nothing like socks.

Lila watched, Cinnamon purring around her ankles. She set the table and placed one perfect, glossy sprout on a tiny saucer. She put it on the floor. “For the queen of the forest,” she said.

Cinnamon trotted over. She sniffed the sprout. She licked it. Then, to Lila’s astonishment, she took a delicate, crunching bite. A tiny piece of green disappeared into the orange fluff. Cinnamon chewed, thoughtfully, then took another bite.

“She’s eating the forest!” Lila giggled.

“She is,” Dad said, putting a plate of golden-green sprouts on the table. “She’s tasting the sunshine and the rain and the earth from her own kingdom. Brave explorer.”

Lila looked at her own plate. The sprouts were no longer grumpy. They were miniature trees from Cinnamon’s domain, roasted with fairy dust. She felt a flicker of the bravery Mum had mentioned.

She speared one half with her fork. It looked like a tiny, golden tree with crispy leaves. She took a small bite.

Crisp on the outside, tender inside. It tasted of autumn and warmth, slightly sweet, a little nutty. It was delicious.

“It’s good!” she said, surprised. She ate another. And another. She imagined she was a giant, eating trees from Cinnamon’s magical jungle.

“What’s the verdict?” Mum asked, her eyes smiling.

Lila finished her last sprout. Cinnamon jumped into her lap, her breath smelling faintly of green. “They’re not grumpy cabbages,” Lila announced, stroking Cinnamon’s head. “They’re fairy trees. And you have to be brave, and have a good friend, to taste their magic.”

From that day on, Lila wasn’t just a girl who ate Brussels sprouts. She was the guardian of the miniature forest, the one who helped plant it each spring, and the brave giant who feasted on its golden bounty each autumn, always with a certain orange-striped queen purring beside her chair, reminding her that sometimes, the most magical things are the ones you learn to see with a different heart.

Total:850 words
WINNER Entry for:"The Writer's Cramp"  January 31, 2026