Sweet Potatoes and Feelings

The smell hits me before anything else. That warm, sweet, earthy scent that always pulls me back. Sweet potatoes, roasting in the oven—her signature.

Funny how something so simple can hold so much.

She made them all the time. Not because they were fancy or hard to make, but because they were hers. Some days she’d sprinkle brown sugar and cinnamon. Other days, just salt and olive oil. But however she made them, they always tasted like comfort. Like care.

I never asked why sweet potatoes. It didn’t feel necessary. It was just one of those quiet parts of her, like the way she’d tuck her hair behind her ear when she was thinking, or how she always hummed softly when she folded laundry—always jazz, always Ella.

Now, years later, I find myself doing the same thing. Slicing them just the way she did—thin, neat, patient. I lay them out on the tray, spacing them perfectly apart, her voice echoing in my head: “Don’t crowd them. Let them breathe.”

She wasn’t just talking about vegetables. That was her way—with food, with people, with love. She didn’t say much, but she showed up. Always.

After a rough day, there would be a warm plate waiting. No big talk, no advice. Just food and a look that said, “I got you.” It was her way of being close, even when we didn’t know how to talk about the hard stuff.

It was never about the potatoes. It was how she loved.

They were there when I was sick. On birthdays. After arguments. In moments when words failed us. Somehow, no matter how distant we felt, she’d still make them. The tray would slide into the oven, and I’d know—we weren’t completely broken. Not yet.

It’s strange, the things you miss.

Not just her laugh or her touch—but the sound of her knife hitting the cutting board, the rhythm of her kitchen steps, the way she’d taste the first slice like it mattered. I miss the way she put love into the tiniest things, like she was pouring all her unsaid feelings into dinner.

We’re raised to look for the big stuff—surprises, grand gestures, Instagram moments. But love? Real love? I’ve found it hides in roasted sweet potatoes. It stays in the small rituals we forget to appreciate. It waits, quietly, in the background of everyday life.

The last time she made them was a Sunday.

It was raining. That soft, steady kind of rain that makes you want to stay under blankets and speak in whispers. We didn’t say much that day. No big moments, no drama. Just quiet, the oven humming, her feet tucked under her, humming to herself like always.

Neither of us knew it’d be the last time. Maybe she did. I didn’t.

When she left, she didn’t take much. A few bags, some books, her old records. But the pan—the one she always used to roast the potatoes—she left that behind.

I don’t know if she meant to. But somehow, it felt like the most personal thing she could’ve done.

Now, I make them on Sundays. Not always. Some weeks I avoid it. Too tired. Too busy. Too afraid to feel. But when I do, I take my time. I cook them like she did. I sit down, alone, no phone, no TV. And I remember.

For a few moments, she’s here again. Not in some sad, ghostly way—just… present. Like the warmth in the air, the scent of sugar crisping, the memory of being quietly, consistently loved.

People ask why I always bring sweet potatoes to potlucks or holidays. I just smile and shrug. “It’s kind of my thing,” I say. They nod, move on. They don’t know.

They don’t need to.

Because for me, it’s not just a dish. It’s a love letter. A thank-you. A memory wrapped in orange slices and oven heat. It’s the way I say, “You mattered. You still do.”

We all have something like that, I think. A song, a smell, a place, a recipe. Something that pulls us back to a person who changed us. Someone who maybe couldn’t stay, but left behind a little part of themselves anyway.

And when we reach for those things—cook that food, play that song—it’s like pulling a thread. A gentle tug on our heart. A reminder.

Love doesn’t leave. It lingers. It shifts. It hides in Sunday dinners and cutting boards and old roasting pans. It waits quietly for us to notice.

And when we do, it’s still warm.