Sweet Potato Pie and the Spirit of Life

Welcome to the bakery, baby. Now look here before we even preheat that oven or start siftin’ flour, lemme tell ya somethin’ true: this ain’t no store bought, shrink-wrapped, microwave tale. Naw, this here’s a second line through memories sweet and heavy, spiced with laughter, seasoned with sorrow, and glazed over with the kinda love you can’t buy nor fake. If you came lookin’ for low-fat or low-spirit, go head on and back out. But if you ready to stir somethin’ soulful, get your heart warm, and maybe cry into your napkin well, baby, welcome to the pot.

Laissez les bons temps rouler, and may the good spirit stir you good.

Sweet Potato Pie and the Spirit of Life

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Now lemme tell ya ‘bout a pie. Not just any pie I’m talkin’ ‘bout a sweet potato pie. One made with scratch love in a kitchen fogged up with cinnamon, nutmeg, brown sugar, and butter so rich your arteries start tappin’ they feet to a brass band beat. See, the first time I watched my granny , Celestine, whip one up, I ain’t realize I was watchin’ a sermon in motion. I was just a lil’ thing, standin’ on a rickety stool, tryna stay out the way while she got to mashin’ and mixin’. Her hands moved like she was conductin’ a gospel choir. But lawd, now I see it clear that wasn’t just cookin’. That was prayer. That was rhythm. That was wisdom passin’ through the steam.

Life, see, life be just like that sweet potato pie. You start with the base the root, the sweet potato itself. Soft, humble, a lil’ dusty from the earth, but full of depth. That root is you, baby. It’s your childhood, your heartbreaks, your belly laughs, your scars all mashed together till smooth. Sometimes you gotta work them lumps out just like you work through pain, pride, and past regrets. The more you mash, the smoother it get, and the sweeter you turn out.

Celestine used to say, “You gotta let life cook, same way you let this pie bake.” And she ain’t just talkin’ about oven time. Naw, she talkin’ ‘bout lettin’ your troubles, your joy, your lessons all blend and simmer till they good and ready. You can’t rush nothin’. She’d look at me when I was itchin’ to get out in the world and say, “Baby, you still in the oven. Let the heat do its work.” Sho’ nuff, that heat was the hardship, the growth, the waitin’. But when I came out that oven golden, seasoned, and still soft in the middle I knew she was right.

And don’t forget the spices, now. That cinnamon? That’s the joy the good music playin’ on Sunday mornin’, the kiss on the cheek from somebody who love you deep. Nutmeg? That’s the wisdom those quiet moments that sit on your chest and whisper somethin’ sacred. And don’t leave out the salt. Oh no, baby. That’s the strugglin’, the disappointments, the hard goodbyes. But Celestine said, “Salt brings out the soul.” And she right again. Without the salt, it’s just sweet on sweet. You need contrast to know how good the good is.

But lemme tell you, above all things Celestine taught me patience. That woman had the kind of patience that’d put a saint to shame. In the kitchen, in the garden, in the way she dealt with folks who ain’t know no better always slow, always sure. “Don’t rush the pie,” she’d say. “It ain’t gon’ do nothin’ but fall flat if you try to make it hurry.” Same with life, baby. Try to pull somethin’ out before it’s ready and you just end up startin’ over, burnt on the edges.

I used to wanna run through life like I was catchin’ the last Mardi Gras float. Wantin’ the answers, the success, the love all at once. But every time I tried to skip steps, life pulled me back like a second line in reverse. Celestine would catch me with that look half stern, half sugar and say, “Kateb, even God don’t bloom no flower in a day. Sit still. Let the dough rise. You don’t find your flavor till you let it simmer.”

She told me this story one night ‘round the table bout a farmer who planted a tree. He came out every day, starin’ at it, waitin’ for fruit like it was gon’ grow peaches overnight. After a year, he got mad and was fixin’ to chop it down. But an old man came walkin’ by, saw the axe, and said, “You foolin’? That tree’s roots growin’ deep. You just too impatient to see it.” And wouldn’t you know, years later, that tree was taller than all the rest fruit hangin’ down like blessings from heaven.

That story been stickin’ to my ribs ever since. Just like that pie don’t judge it by the first five minutes in the oven. Wait. Let it rise. Let it brown. Let it get good and done.

Every pie we made, Celestine said, “Let your spirit stir into the mix.” She ain’t never make nothin’ half-hearted. And now, when I stand in my own kitchen, whippin’ up pies for my family, I hear her—her hum, her laughter, the way she’d tap the pie crust and say, “That’s love, right there.” I slow down. I breathe. I stir with soul. And I trust that what’s in the oven

just like what’s in me gon’ come out alright.

So next time you find yourself rushin’ tryna make life happen on your schedule, wishin’ you was further along stop. Breathe. Remember the pie. Ain’t no great soul been made in a microwave. Let your life marinate. Let the music of your heart slow dance with time.

Final Word

When you stir up somethin’ in your kitchen or in your spirit remember: sweetness come from patience. Heat makes you rise. And a lil’ salt? That’s just the seasonin’ to make you shine. So live your life like that pie: golden, tender, soulful, and sprinkled with a whole lotta love and just enough hurt to know joy when it come knockin’.

Now go on, baby serve that up. And let the spirit feed somebody.

Laissez les bons temps rouler