Good Old Aunt Agnes

It started with a yam I bought in Tucson last February. I intended to bake it for Dennis and me to share, but the yam responded to the siren call of springtime and quickly grew three tiny sprouts. I enjoy watching things grow, so I gave it toothpick supports and put it in a glass of water.

By April, when it was time for us to trek back to Kansas, the yam had several green shoots seven or eight inches high. Could I leave that yam behind to die in the fierce Arizona heat of summer? No, indeed, I could not. Dennis agreed, and, in his whimsical way, decided to name the yam for his Aunt Agnes.

The first day Agnes rode in its glass of water in the front seat cup holder. Unfortunately the air conditioning blew directly on her there and she responded by wilting.  The second day she rode in the back, nestled in Dennis’s hiking boot. “That’s better,” she seemed to say, as she perked right up. Had I known what a star Agnes was destined to become, I’d have photographed her in the boot.

Back home in Kansas, Agnes moved into a less-tippy coffee mug.

As the sprouts grew longer, I broke them off their mama and set them in glasses of water to develop their own roots.

When there were twenty well-developed plants, Dennis set them out in the garden plot he had reserved, marking each plant with a yellow flag.

Agnes was still producing shoots, so she went to live with Laurie, our dear neighbor, where she produced enough yam starts to fill Laurie’s garden space. Finally, Laurie called to say that Agnes was still producing, but was nonetheless headed for the compost pile. Laurie felt sorry about that, but neither of us had more room for more yams.

Agnes’s offspring grew to cover a corner of our garden, completely hiding the yellow flags. The plants had beautiful pink flowers hiding among the leaves.

At last a killing freeze came, reducing the plants to blackened vines and leaves, and, incidentally, revealing the yellow flags that indicated where Dennis should dig for yams.

The intrigue of growing yams and potatoes is that one doesn’t know whether the tubers will be of decent size until it’s time to dig. Well, Agnes’s progeny did not disappoint.

When the digging was finished Dennis spread the yams on newspaper to cure. In a couple of weeks their delicate skins will toughen enough to be stored in baskets.

You may notice a heap of small yams in the center of the above photo. Every plant produces small yams in addition to large ones. As Dennis was digging, I encouraged him to discard the small ones, but he said our forefathers couldn’t afford to waste anything, and he didn’t intend to either. He expects me to make sweet potato pies of the small ones, and that’s going to be a lot of pies. I have a recipe from Craig Claiborn’s Southern Cooking ready to go.

Aunt Agnes's lineage will live on, for I intend to save one yam to start another generation for the 2018 garden. I may or may not live to see it, but I know that Laurie and Dennis will see that Agnes’s lineage goes on and on, as mine will when I’m relegated to the compost heap.

Copyright 2017 by Shirley Domer