It came as a complete surprise. I bought the tater as food. It was one of those wrapped-in-plastic, microwaveable sweet potatoes. I waited too long to bake it and it began to sprout. Now normally I would just toss out a sprouting potato, but something about this little tater made me place it in a cup of water and set it on the kitchen windowsill.
And it grew.
And it's still growing. It has a network of white, delicate roots and beautiful purple vines with green heart-shaped leaves.
And I talk to it.
Now you have to understand that every plant I've ever had up to this moment has died from neglect. It's not that I hate plants. I just don't care enough about them to keep one as a responsibility.
But there's something about this little sweet potato that's different. I'm really not sure what it is; could just be chemistry. Like my chem professor said in college, attraction is all about chemistry. Well, if that's true then Yamela and I (yes, I named my tater Yamela, or Yammy, for short) have chemistry in spades. While the dogs drive me crazy with their wild Indian antics and the cats throw up on my hard wood floors, Yamela calms me down with her quiet, undemanding energy.
She really brightens my day. I actually enjoy washing dishes now because I get to spend time with Yammy. I'm also trying to grow her stunted cousin, Tate, but it's just not the same.
Yammy is just my little "sweet" potato.
Or I'm totally cuckoo. Take your pick.