Orange Love

Growing up in Georgia, sweet potato pie was a constant presence in the Thanksgiving and Christmas culinary repertoire. In the Robinson family, it is never Thanksgiving without a sweet potato pie. I would call my aunts days in advance to make sure they were bringing one to the annual Thanksgiving potluck dinner. It could not just be any pie; however, it had to be a carefully chosen one.
Sweet potato pies are like men. A good one could take a while to find. Good pies usually do not look as appetizing as the bad ones, and that is the trick to finding them. Good sweet potato pies look rough around the edges. The crust is not nicely formed and round, but crumbling. The filling, the most important part, does not look perfect and smooth like the ones in the cookbooks. It is bumpy and rough, but full of sweet, holiday goodness.
Every year, I would hound my aunts about bringing the pies. The year when I was seventeen, however, something changed. On the eve of Thanksgiving, my parents told my sister and me that our extended family would not be having its annual Thanksgiving celebration. I was so upset at the adults in my family, who claimed they did not have money to contribute to such a large meal. They said they all wanted to celebrate separately, in their own homes, with their individual families. I was so incensed about my family members ruining a tradition I had known my entire life, that I forgot about the pie.
Thanksgiving morning came and I was not happy about it. I had nothing to look forward to in the evening. My mother, who was and still is a mediocre cook, was going to try to make her first turkey. My dad would be making collard greens from the recipe his mom had given him. The vibrant, unmistakable rainbow of colors and flavorful tastes would be noticeably absent this year. There would be no sweet, sticky cranberry sauce, Aunt Quita’s extra cheesy macaroni, or Grandma’s special celery- infused dressing.
I had to do something. I could not sit around on my second favorite holiday of the year and lament. Suddenly, I knew what I could do to contribute to our meager, pathetic meal. I would make a sweet potato pie! I was hoping that maybe my favorite food would help me feel better and add a little oomph to our first holiday meal without the loud yelling, laughter, and antics of the extended Robinson family.
When I got back to the house from my first adventure to the grocery store as a potential chef, I was so excited about starting my culinary adventure. Unfortunately, I had no idea how difficult it would be! Who knew how long it would take to make the potatoes soften? I stuck them in the oven, assuming that all they needed was a little bit of heat. Thirty minutes later, although they were thoroughly heated, they were still as hard they had been when I had bought them.
Hoping to start over, I typed “how to soften sweet potatoes” into Google. After I learned that I needed to boil them, I followed those directions and a short while later I had semi-soft sweet potatoes. They were only semi- soft because of my impatience. I had waited so long the first and unsuccessful time I put them in the oven. I could not bear to wait too long the second time. Patience

may be a virtue, but it was not something I was willing to accept at that time.
When I had finally done enough to make the potatoes somewhat malleable, I mixed in the other ingredients using a wooden spoon. As I observed the blending of the coarse brown sugar with the butter, eggs, and vanilla extract, I began to get excited about my pie. I was beginning to think that maybe I could start a new tradition with my mom, dad and sister. Maybe I could spend a little time every Thanksgiving making a pie; I could spend time making something other people would enjoy.
When I had mixed all the ingredients for the filling, I dipped my finger in the buttery, fiery, sunset-colored mixture of cream and sweetness. As I brought my finger to my mouth, I suddenly thought of the many Thanksgivings past when I had devoured the store bought creations of some food machine in a factory far away. I knew this would be so much more. More satisfying. More enjoyable. This pie would be mine, not something I would devour; it was a creation to be savored.

Using my mother’s baby blue spatula, I gently spread the filling in the frozen pie crust I had bought. I must admit it was a little chunky, a product of my overzealousness when it came to prematurely taking the potatoes out of the boiling water. I was not disappointed about the imperfections, though. They seemed to make the pie uniquely mine. I placed my newest creation in the oven with a sense of accomplishment which was probably too big for the recently completed feat.
After about an hour and a half of baking, I began to smell the sweet aroma of vanilla from the kitchen. As I was taking the pie out of the oven, I got a text message from my best friend, Joya. “Congrats on your first sweet potato pie.” The smile danced across my face. I took my pie out and showed it to my mom, who hugged me and told me that she could not wait to eat it. My father did the opposite. He made a comment about wanting to continue living, so he would skip the pie. I laughed. That night the four of us, my parents, my sister, and I, had our first Thanksgiving in our house without my dad’s ten siblings and their families. We had started a new tradition. My chunky, sweet, homemade creation was part of it all.

Image: Sweet Potato Pie. Source: jomamassoutherndining.com/menu