I blame Dionna Schmidt.
When she came over nearly 5 years ago and effortlessly threw a sweet potato in the oven, I can only assume that she was unaware of the beast she so easily unleashed. A salt and peppered temptress. A dangerous love with tiny, delicious, orange cubes. A tasty, tasty, slow baked sweet potato.
Since that day, my obsession has only grown deeper. Here I sit, typing this very post, with a plate of baked sweet potatoes sitting in front of me. For the third time this week. Ok. The fourth time. I just can’t help myself.
They are, in my opinion the nicest vegetable. And the most forgiving. I can chop them up in the most casual of ways with all different shapes and sizes, no real uniformity required, douse with a little olive oil, slide them in the oven, literally forget about them, and 45 minutes later, that are better than ever. The only flaw in that scenario is that I would NEVER forget about them. Ever. Because from the second the word “lunchtime” dances into my head each day, I am counting down the seconds until the oven does it’s job and I can pop these little bite sized beauties into my pie hole for immaculate consumption.
So, secret admirer, this Valentine’s Day, don’t send me flowers. Don’t send me chocolate. Send a shoe box full of sweet potatoes. And I’ll be yours forever.