With utmost care, I peel away the delicate skin of that irresistibly tender form, making sure not to nick even a tiny bit of the flesh inside. If a small piece accidentally catches under my tiny fingernail, I feel a pang of regret and bring my finger to my mouth, savoring every last bit of that sweet, cool flavor.

Fresh from the pot, steam rises in wisps. I use chopsticks to gently lift each sweet potato onto a porcelain plate, handling them as if they were fragile eggs. One careless mistake, and those soft, delicate potatoes might… well, be ruined. Once they’re safely arranged on our little family table, I pick up a piping-hot one and begin my journey of discovery.

How could anyone resist something so warm, so sweet, so irresistibly soft?

The Joy of Hot Potatoes

Eating a hot sweet potato can burn your tongue. Peeling and eating it bit by bit as you go might even raise the risk. But when you see that golden flesh, dotted with tiny starch grains steaming with a gentle, fragrant aroma, a burnt tongue feels like a worthy price. So, I blow on it, wince, and savor that small, scalding treasure in my hands.

I don’t often boil sweet potatoes until they’re too soft. I like them just firm enough, past the point of being starchy but with a slight bite. That way, the core stays intact, not too mushy, so when I sink my teeth in, there’s a faint crunch on my tongue.

Potatoes Past and Present

Boiled sweet potatoes are rare these days. You’re more likely to find roasted ones on street carts, their sweet, syrupy aroma mingling with the scent of their thin skins singed by the fire—a seductive fragrance that’s hard to resist.

Then there’s fried sweet potato, or what we call “potato cakes,” golden and glistening with oil fresh from the pan. Let them sit a moment, and the oil fades, leaving a snack that’s crispy, fragrant, and, of course, sweet.

Childhood’s Simple Gifts

My childhood was fortunate. I didn’t grow up with cassava or diluted rice. I was lucky, too, to know the fields, to sneakily dig up sweet potatoes, boil them, or roast them over a honeycomb coal stove, then sit peeling their skins, my face smudged with soot as I ate.

Back then, I’d trail behind my grandfather to the fields, hands clasped behind my back, tumbling into someone else’s rice paddy without a hint of fear. Now, just falling into water and flailing a bit would have me screaming.

Childhood… So many things to remember. It’s as small and warm as that sweet potato—singed, smudged, and a little raw inside, full of the clumsy, innocent mistakes of youth.

And because childhood never comes back…