Ode to Sweet Potatoes

My father introduced me to you
more than six years ago,
first as baked and buttered,
sugar-coated bites of orange ambrosia.
The connection was kismet and
my cravings to taste
your sweet, starchy, succulent
flavor never ceases.

Your family tree is tangled;
not related to the potato,
cousin to the morning glory,
always mistaken for the sister yam.
But I know your true identity.

Your eye-catching jewel tones distract me from other choices of food.
The kaleidoscope of colors creates enough variation,
so I never tire of the burnt orange, buttercup yellow or wisteria purple varieties.

On your perennial vine,
your leaves resemble that of palms
and alternate with heart-shaped lobed ones.
Skin so smooth and thin it’s that of an 80 year-olds.
No two are alike,
short boxy tapered ends,
knobby and wart-like additions add to your otherwise tuberous shape.

Never happy just the way you are,
many try to transform you to fit their personal palates,
baked,
boiled,
candied,
hidden inside a flakey pie crust,
julienned into fries
adorned with perfectly tanned marshmallows.

Sustenance in the form of
bountiful vitamins, carbohydrates and
belly-bloating amounts of fiber.
You keep me flourishing,
a faultless form of nourishment.

I’ll eat you until,
my last days,
most likely,
unashamedly,
dipped heavily
in ketchup.
Though this
humble condiment
doesn’t do
your greatness
justice.