(Photo is of mom upon her college graduation - she was 40-years-old and had five kids when she graduated)
I love sweet potatoes and would probably eat them three times a week if the hubby shared that affection. Pan roasted with a little olive oil and a sprinkling of chopped rosemary, yum! I buy them often with the best of intentions, but in reality only cook them occasionally. Those that don’t get cooked sit in my veggie basket patiently waiting to please me, slowly loosing their moisture, their skin shriveling in seeming despair. I glance at them briefly, guiltily, like I’ve somehow let them down by not relishing their sweet, creamy being, and eventually toss them, all the while looking over my shoulder not making potato-eye contact. But, every now and then, I catch a glimpse of a root, reaching out, like a begging hand, and somehow know that this is one sweet potato I cannot get rid of because it reminds me of my mom.
Mom had a particular fondness for simple plants. I cannot pass by a stand of morning glories without tearing up, and I cannot throw away a sweet potato that has sprouted a root, because those were my mom’s two favorite plants. Morning glories grew prolifically out by mom’s back door, their purple and blue flowers trumpeting their vibrant beauty only briefly and yet gloriously in the cool of the morning.
Her sweet potato plants brought a deep green jungle of trailing vines and giant leaves into our home, adding a living breathing feeling to the otherwise inanimate furnishings. She would show me an aging sweet potato, pointing out the tiny roots reaching out of their eyes and say, “We’ll put this one in a jar.”
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