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We use cookies and other tracking technologies to improve your browsing experience on our site, show personalized content and targeted ads, analyze site traffic, and understand where our audiences come from. To learn more or opt-out, read our Cookie Policy. The American yam is not the food it says it is. How that came to be is a story of robbery, reinvention, and identity.
In Nash County, North Carolina—where cotton and tobacco were once king, and where sweet potatoes now reign supreme—enterprise is indebted to the earth, a soft, sandy, and khaki-brown soil perfectly suited for tubers and industrial crops alike. Today, the harvest periods for sweet potatoes and cotton still overlap, from the beginning of October into early November.
Leggett, 46, is wearing a forest-green windbreaker. Underneath is a sky-blue oxford, and below that a pearly white undershirt hugs his clavicle. His ivory face is flushed, and his eyes have a turquoise tint. The farmer moves deftly between rows. Laborers with bucket hats and dusty cloth gloves brush craters in the ground.
They remove one salmon-hued orb after another, lobbing them into plastic buckets at their feet. Moist sand clings to their flesh like brown sugar. I drag my index and middle fingers down their spine, my thumb along their sides. They are fresh and soft and warm. In my hands lies a precious thing. First boil, next peel and slice, then dress, and finally bake.