the sweetness

every time i eat a baked sweet potato, i think about my grandma. it scares me how vivid those memories still are in my head. i must have been 5 or 6 years old, huddled around a charcoal pit, on a chilly fall day waiting for those ash strewn globules of deliciousness to cook. somehow my grandma would always know when they're done, perhaps wisdom that comes along with old age.

it's kind of funny how our earliest and most vivid memories are always about food. and we never grow out of what we grew up eating. the comfort food of our past, it does more than just quell our belly-aching, i'd like to think it warms our soul.

maybe it is not the food itself that triggers a response in our emotions. that is not to say that they are not tasty, just that maybe it is something else, a sweetness associated with other things surrounding the idea of the food we ingest. perhaps the process of making them, or maybe the people we're with while we consumed them.

i just wanted to write this down before i forget, and until the next time i decide to bake myself another sweet potato, which would almost certainly be sooner than later.

+listening to: nothing