I grew up with this stuff at Thanksgiving.
Yup, sweet potato casseroles with marshmallows on top. I hated them as a kid and, therefore, stayed away from sweet potatoes for my entire adult life – until last year. I was reading an article about how nutritious yams are and thought I’d be a sport and try one. (Michael, on the other hand, wouldn’t go for it. He’s devoted to his starchy Idaho spud, and there’s no changing his mind.)
On that first fateful night, I popped my yam into the toaster oven and baked it. And whoa. Just whoa.
I couldn’t get over how delicious it was. I didn’t season it with cinnamon, didn’t lard it up with butter, didn’t touch it. It was sweet and caramel-y all by itself, and I was hooked. Now I bake one several times a week and I look forward to dinner as if it were dessert.
Why am I bothering to write about this instead of, say, dissecting every word and tweet of Charlie Sheen? Because food matters to me. Meals matter to me. I sit at the computer all day (and often into the night), so when it’s time for a break I really don’t want to waste my time or my taste buds on stuff that’s mediocre. The other night I was looking forward to having wild salmon but Michael overcooked it on the grill and it ended up tasting like this.
Luckily, I had a yam to go with the salmon so the dinner wasn’t a total loss. I’m telling you, yams are the best. They never disappoint. They always fool me into thinking I’m eating candy. They make me curse all those years I avoided them.