On Saturday, we dug the sweet potatoes.

I should clarify. My husband dug the potatoes, I snapped photos (the light was superb), and the kids picked the occasional potato and a basket of worms.

Then they fed the worms to the chickens.

The chickens were pretty keen on the whole worm business, though sometimes they got confused and tried to eat a finger.

For a couple weeks now, I’ve been begging my husband to dig the potatoes.

It’s not like I couldn’t do it, of course—I just wanted him to. I’ll pick up the plants from the greenhouse, water and weed them, and cook them all up into yummy food, just don’t make me dig them.

After digging them, “we” rinsed them off and set them to cure in the barn.

In a couple weeks, once their skins are thoroughly dry, we’ll wrap them in newspapers and store them in an upstairs closet. Potatoes all winter long, yay!

The main reason I wanted my husband to dig the potatoes was because I had pie on the brain. I wanted a sweet potato pie. I needed a sweet potato pie.

I made a sweet potato pie last month. It was my first ever, I think, and I loved it. It was destined for the blog, I knew, but I wanted to make it again, just to be sure. And I wanted to experiment with cutting back on the sugar just a little. Plus, new recipes have been a little sparse around here lately and I miss ‘em. My cooking juice has boiled dry. The pot needed freshening, and sweet potato pie was my way back to you, babe(s).

But look, it’s Wednesday (four whole days after Saturday) and I’ve just now gotten around to making the pie. I fully blame the whopper of a cold that hit me upside the head and turned all my nose fluids to water. You can’t get much done when you have to stop every thirty seconds to honk your snozz and wash your hands, even when you try to streamline things by draping a cloth diaper over your head for easy nose wipe-age.

But I persevered!

I roasted the sweet potatoes on Monday … and then went on a walk in the rain with my sister-in-law, during which we expounded upon the marvels of the sweet potato (they’re so easy to grow! they go in anything! salads! stews! curries! pies! cookies! mash ‘em! fry ‘em! bake ‘em!) so that by the end we had pretty much decided we were never going to plant a boring old white potato again (okay, so we’ll still plant a few).

I made the pastry on Tuesday, and then pulled it all together on Wednesday, today, real quick first thing while the Ibuprofen and caffeine were still coursing through my veins.

I burned it, too.

But oh well. It still got rave reviews. The spice combo is perfect: ground coriander, nutmeg, cinnamon, and all that vanilla, and the earthy, sweet potato flavor shines through. So decadent and filling and comforting.

It’s a good pie to have for breakfast, or to eat out of hand after coming home from a hard day of roofing, or to top with a cap of whipped cream.

Give it a go. I bet you’ll love it.

P.S. My new about page is up and running, whee!

Sweet Potato Pie
Adapted from Joy the Baker

I used roasted sweet potatoes, but you can cook them anyway you please. Just make sure you mash them so there are no lumpies—my handheld electric beaters did the trick just fine. I also reduced the sugar by a quarter cup.

2 cups mashed sweet potatoes
3/4 cup brown sugar
4 tablespoons butter
1 1/4 teaspoons ground coriander
½ teaspoon nutmeg
½ teaspoon cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup white sugar
10 ounces evaporated milk
3 eggs
1 tablespoon vanilla
½ recipe rich butter crust in a 9 or 10-inch pie pan, crimped, and refrigerated

Melt the butter in a heavy bottomed saucepan. Add the sweet potato puree, brown sugar, and spices and heat till warm. Remove the pan from the heat and beat in the milk, white sugar, eggs, and vanilla. (A hand-held immersion blender works like a charm.)

Pour the pie filling into the pie shell (but first taste it—wouldn’t this make a fabulous ice cream?) and bake at 450 degrees for 10 minutes before reducing the temperature to 325 degrees and baking for another 40-60 minutes until the center is puffed, making sure to cover the edges with foil if they’re threatening to burn.

Cool for at least an hour before serving.

This same time, years previous: the morning kitchen, signs, news, and daydreams

*a homemade parachute, a windy day, and a boy with a dream
*a toilet-side game of Uno
*a police helmet: which reminds me of a certain beloved children’s picture book (I’ll give you three guesses)
*supper fixings: the celery and onions are for the potato soup, the glass of red is for me
*freshly dusted marshmallows
*restocking the jelly cupboard
*the first frost and the last garden salad, sob
*the blind piano tuner at work: within minutes of him setting up shop, I found my oldest daughter walking through the kitchen with her eyes squinched shut and a mop in her hand, tap-tap-tapping the floor, and my younger daughter was fumbling around the back hall, a large hankie covering her eyes. The kids are intrigued by the thought that they could take off all their clothes and run around naked and he wouldn’t ever know. (I didn’t let them try it.)
*the first piercings: a surprise for the girls, their papa’s treat (the younger daughter chickened out, but then, she hadn’t been incessantly begging for the adornments like her big sister)
*take it to the microscope: what any good princess does after getting bitten by a spider
*team work
*a rainbow!
*math lessons made easier by holding a sleeping baby
*eating breakfast while trying to stay warm: here’s to hoping he doesn’t topple

This same time, years previous: cheddar cheese fondue, apple tart with cider-rosemary glaze, my oldest son’s birth story

My son turned twelve on Sunday, though we celebrated it on Saturday.

Next year he’ll turn thirteen, the start of a new age in our house: six years later and we’ll have four teenagers. The thought both excites and saddens me.

I’m not scared though. I don’t buy all that hoopla about the teen years being such a trial and tribulation. Those were the toddler years, in my opinion. I’ll take teenage sass and smarts over unverbal tots any day.

Not that it will be easy, of course. Nothing is.

The main reason I’m sad about the new age dawning is that it’s one more sign that I’m growing old. It’s one thing to talk about getting old when you’re twenty. It’s another thing to experience it, or the twinges of it, when you’re thirty-six. I don’t mind the internal part of getting old, the build up of experiences, the collected wisdom, the accumulated friends and family, but the physical part of getting old? That part scares me.

Is there any way to age gracefully? Does anyone walk into old age willingly, eager to embrace the wrinkles and sagging upper arms and achy joints? Or are humans programmed to fight it, to push against it, to grieve it?

This same time, years previous: buttermilk pancakes