Ode to the Sweet Potato

I've just finished dinner, London broil with sauteed mushrooms and baked potato. It was accompanied by a cabernet sauvignon we had picked up in White Oak Vineyard in Napa. However, the peace de resistance was desert, homemade sweet potato pie. Like in the Randy Owen song, "Song, song of the South, Sweet potato pie and a shut my mouth..." The wedge had an old golden color to it somewhat like burnt sienna. Slightly warm with a flaky crust and a dollop of whipped cream. It was the food of gods. We had bought the potatoes at Cook's Produce stand in Edgefield, South Carolina. The recipe was my mother's. The texture was a course but creamy. The native sweetness of the tuber enhanced slightly by the spices of the Orient. So quickly it was gone. No crumbs were left. But in the middle of the saucer was one lonely tear. When the last bite of this undeniable icon of southern cuisine is gone it is, indeed, a time for sadness and morning.