Money over my yammys

The sizzle of fried sweet potato covered in smothery gravy. Morning bowl of milk with plops of succutashy squashy yams. Hmm mmh good. A small piece of two week old bread, lightly toasted on the top side only, seated atop aluminum foil. A smooth silvery knife spreading viscous parallel lines of root. A long veined brown-orange mash can make any morning slippery and sloopy. Smosh, smush, chomp chomp chomp. Fried in the griddle, the husky vegetable moves quickly around the buttery bottom. Sometime, this evening preferably, it will move around my buttery bottom, uncontested comode surprise.

A holiday dish, indeed! This veritable everyday masticating is fungable. Only the southern dialect of vegetarian delicacies can bring justice to the most flexible of all this yummy, yammy goodness. Sing, sing the praises of the hollowed gangly feast.