There is a certain moment in every Thanksgiving dinner when the table begins to glow not from the candles or the golden crust of the turkey, but from the amber glisten of sweet potatoes, glazed with sugar, cinnamon, and just enough butter to blur the line between savory side and dessert. Their soft, tender flesh and caramelized topping are unapologetically sweet, as if they arrived at the feast by mistake, bringing the essence of pie filling to the main course. And yet, there they are, year after year revered, defended, devoured. Few Thanksgiving dishes spark such passionate loyalty. In some households, it’s not Thanksgiving without the sweet potatoes topped with a toasted layer of mini marshmallows. In others, the recipe leans more toward the elegant: roasted wedges dressed with maple syrup and pecans, perfumed with nutmeg and orange zest. There are even quiet kitchen debates over the name itself is it “candied yams,” or is it “sweet potato casserole”? Are yams even yams at all? The truth is, most “candied yams” served at American Thanksgiving tables are actually sweet potatoes. True yams are native to Africa and Asia, with a rough, bark-like exterior and starchy flesh far different from the bright orange roots we use in our holiday cooking. But names aside, the dish has become a staple of the American feast, particularly in Southern and African American culinary traditions, where it carries the weight of history, resilience, and family.

For many, sweet potatoes are more than just food they’re a legacy. A dish passed down from grandmothers who knew how to stretch a harvest, from great-aunts who added just the right amount of brown sugar by instinct, from mothers who stirred the pot with one hand while holding a baby with the other. The recipe may not be written down. The measurements are often “a little of this, a handful of that.” But the result is always the same: tender, sweet, spiced, and unforgettable. There’s a warmth to sweet potatoes that feels uniquely tied to memory. They are soft and yielding, full of flavor and sweetness, but grounded in the earth. They remind us of childhood, of the first time we were allowed to help stir the casserole, of sneaking a marshmallow before it made it to the oven. They’re the dish that gets finished even by people who “don’t usually like sweet things.” They are tradition and comfort in one steamy, syrupy scoop.

And though they are sometimes unfairly dismissed by those who prefer savory sides, the truth is that sweet potatoes and candied yams perform a special role on the plate. They balance the meal just as cranberry sauce cuts through richness, sweet potatoes enhance it, pushing it into something indulgent and celebratory. Their sweetness brings out the salt in the turkey, the spice in the stuffing, the butter in the rolls. When they’re done right, they’re not too sweet, not too heavy just exactly what the holiday needs. To make them is to slow down, to melt sugar and butter together and watch it turn to caramel, to roast the vegetables until they sigh open, to layer flavors like memories soft and sweet, but never simple. It’s a reminder that food doesn’t have to choose between comfort and beauty. It can be both. It should be both.

Here is a classic recipe a foundation. One that you can customize, tweak, pass down, or protect as your own. Make it with love, serve it warm, and don’t apologize when you reach for seconds before the pie is even cut.