Another step toward grownupsville

On the outskirts of adulthood, that residential district filled with chamois shirts and flower print blouses, there's a small town where if you want something done, you do it yourself. As I was unconsciously sifting through my memory banks, I came to the realization that there are certain tastes and smells that I associate with the holidays. One of those tastes done to near perfection by women in my family is the taste of sweet potatoes. I've had the recipe for ages, but I've never had the will or the gumption to take on my memory. This year, with Thanksgiving looming and no alternative sweet potatoes in sight, I decided to take action.

Twice I made the sweet potatoes, once misunderstanding the directions "peeled and cooked" and once coming up short in the magic sauce department, and twice I lived to smile about it. They may have lacked the texture and the look of the family tradition, but at least in part they packed the flavor. With a mixture of pride and sadness, I brought the sweet potatoes to two different Thanksgiving day meals.