Vegetables. Sophie Grigson

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       Sweet potatoes

      It’s the colour that does it for me, every time. It’s so damn cheery. Brighter than even a carrot; it’s that orange. Not on the outside, of course. No, the skin of a sweet potato is a muted, more sophisticated wine-dregs rose. Remarkably similar, if not identical, to the skin of a kumara (see page 46), the white-fleshed form of the sweet potato, which would be confusing if kumara were more commonly available.

      The vibrant orange of the flesh of the sweet potato only develops as the tuber cooks. Raw, the colour of the flesh sends me back to a time when junior aspirins were coloured just that attractive shade of faded, pinky orange. You can, I am assured, eat sweet potatoes raw – grated perhaps into a salad – but I’ve tried it and I don’t think I’ll bother again. The moistness of the sweet cooked flesh, with its psychedelic-sweetie hue, is what appeals.

      Despite the obvious allure of the sweet potato, it has taken an awfully long time to make headway on this side of the Atlantic. It came back from the Americas with the Spanish Conquistadors, and indeed the very first potato of any kind to be planted on our shores is rumoured to have been an Ipomoea batatas, not a true potato (Solanum tuberosum) at all. They are not, incidentally, even vaguely related, belonging to different botanical families. Unlike real potatoes, sweet potatoes crave warmth and without it they won’t thrive; England’s climate is hardly sub-tropical, and the crop was a miserable failure.

      Now we’ve given up growing them in the great outdoors, and finally are importing them in increasing numbers. Sales are swelling, we are slowly taking them to our hearts, and they look like becoming a permanent fixture in the British diet. Hurrah. It’s only taken 500 years.

      Practicalities

      BUYING

      Taut skin and firm bodies – that’s what you’re looking for, just like on the

      beach. At the risk of sounding ageist, wrinkles are to be rejected, and there’s no point at all in handing over your cash for a sweet potato that has soft patches. The tips may be slightly discoloured but this is only to be expected – those sweet potatoes have travelled a long way. If I have a choice I pick larger tubers, merely because they are less fiddly to handle.

      Stored in a cool place they will last for several weeks, but like most vegetables the sooner you cook them the better they will taste.

      COOKING

      I’ll bet you a tenner that most of the sweet potatoes eaten here are baked in their jackets. It’s the obvious way to cook a sweet potato. None of that sweetness leaching out, and no extra damp creeping in. It makes sense. Treat them just like ordinary potatoes – prick the skin, rub in a little salt if you wish, then bake at around 190°C/375°F/Gas 5 until tender. Time will depend on the size of the potatoes, but we’re talking in terms of 45–60 minutes, give or take. Or microwave them, again just as you would an ordinary potato.

      Baked sweet potatoes are just great served instead of ordinary potatoes, split open and buttered, or topped with grated Parmesan or mature Cheddar, or soured cream and chives. I love them with bacon, with tzatziki, Greek yoghurt, and even tapenade. You might like to run up a snappy chilli and coriander butter for them (blend butter, fresh red chilli, coriander leaves and a shot or two of lime juice) or a classic French beurre maître d’hôtel (butter, parsley, garlic and lemon juice).

      Sweet potatoes make a stunning mash – run the American route with this one, flavouring the mash with grated nutmeg and cinnamon, to highlight the warmth. Add a big knob of butter, plenty of salt and freshly squeezed orange juice which matches not only the colour but also the flavour. Don’t use milk in sweet potato mash – it just feels plain wrong.

      Americans consider sweet potatoes (which they often call yams to confuse everyone else) an essential part of the Thanksgiving meal, served with the turkey and all the trimmings. Candied yams is a dish of sweet potatoes cooked with sugar and other flavourings (often orange juice and spices) to accompany the main course. Adding sugar to sweet potatoes? Overkill, unless we’re talking pudding. It’s certainly not an idea that appeals to me.

      I’d far rather sauté cubes of sweet potato, finishing them with salt and ground cumin and coriander just before they emerge from the pan, or perhaps grate them raw to make a sweet-salt version of rösti, so good with game or white fish. You can use all sweet potato, or mix it with equal quantities of ordinary potato, or grate in raw carrot, or beetroot for something altogether more fancy. How about sweet potato and beetroot rösti, topped with a little soured cream and herring roe caviar (or the real thing when you are feeling extravagant) to serve as a chic starter to a dinner party? Put me on the guest list right now.

      Using vegetables in puddings is not a natural activity. We’ve all grown used to carrot cake, but that’s cake, not dessert. Put aside any reservations you may have in the case of sweet potatoes. They mash down to such a moist smoothness that they work brilliantly in all kinds of recipes. Be bold and try the meringue-topped sweet potato pie below, and you’ll see what I mean. You could also enrich the mashed sweet potato with cream, butter and a little extra sugar to use as the filling for a two-crust pie, or to make a fool. I don’t see why you couldn’t concoct a superb sweet potato ice-cream if you fancied – then keep all your guests guessing the nature of your mystery pudding.

      SEE ALSO KUMARA (PAGE 46).

      Stir-fried sweet potato with lamb and green beans

      Baking and boiling are all very well, but if you want to retain a degree of firmness to your sweet potato, then stir-frying is the natural choice. Stir-fry it on its own to serve as a side dish, but better still stir-fry it with lamb and salty Chinese black bean sauce for a quick feast, guaranteed to rev up the spirits, as it works the taste-buds.

      For stir-frying I use either lamb leg steaks or chump chops, cut into thin slivers. The number of chillies is entirely at your discretion. I use medium-sized, medium-heat chillies here, to maximise the flashes of red in amongst the vegetables and meat, without totally blowing the roof out of my mouth. Tiny bird chillies are so ferocious that it would be wise to restrict yourself to one, foregoing the visuals in order to survive the heat. Unless, that is, you are a chilli fiend.

      Serves 2–3

       2 tablespoons sunflower or vegetable oil

       2 cm (3/4 in) piece fresh root ginger, peeled and chopped

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