Southern Candied Yams

You Want to Know How I Really Make These Yams?

Alright, settle in. Southern Candied Yams, to me, taste like every family reunion, lazy Sunday, and cold night wrapped up in caramel sweetness; they kinda make boring roast chicken or whatever you have on the side become an event. I learned this from my Aunt Mae (and let me tell you, she was not shy with the sugar), but the first time I made them alone, I almost dropped the whole dish taking it out of the oven—maybe don’t use those worn-out potholders you keep meaning to replace. Oh, also, I once called them sweet potatoes in front of my cousins and got side-eyed for five whole minutes, so, lesson learned! If you call these yams and someone corrects you, just smile and take another bite; they’re all gonna eat three servings anyway.

Why Do I Keep Making Them? Well…

I make this recipe when I need something to make everybody’s eyes light up (the way they do when you walk in with dessert, but this is totally…practically…a side dish). My family goes bananas for this because it’s sweet without being sickly (unless I get heavy-handed with the syrup, then it’s like a sugar rocket—which, let’s be honest, sometimes hits the spot). Also, they’re forgiving. Had a rough day? Yams don’t care, they turn out fine anyway (mostly). I’ve even messed up and left out the cinnamon once; still got cleaned out of the dish.

What You’ll Need (But Don’t Panic If You Don’t Have It All)

• 4-5 medium yams (or sweet potatoes, honestly)…my grandmother always insisted on the Beauregard type, but any orange-fleshed ones work
• 1 stick (about 110g) unsalted butter (I’ve used salted too in a pinch, just skip adding extra salt if you do)
• 1 cup brown sugar (though I’ve gotten away with 3/4 cup light brown + 1/4 cup white sugar when the brown ran low)
• 1/2 cup water, or OJ if you want a citrusy pop (I did this once and my brother said it was almost too fancy, but good!)
• 1/2 tsp ground cinnamon (okay, sometimes I up this to a full teaspoon because cinnamon is happiness)
• 1/4 tsp nutmeg (optional, but I never skip it since I found a dusty jar in my pantry and now I’m obsessed)
• Small pinch of salt (or none if your butter was salted, as above)
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract (if I have it; imitation is fine; on second thought, skip it if you don’t like vanilla things)
• Marshmallows for the top (sometimes, but not always—my cousin swears it’s only for Thanksgiving; up to you)

Here’s (Roughly) How I Do It

1. Preheat oven to 375°F (190°C). No need to be precious about it; my old oven ran hot and nothing went seriously wrong.
2. Peel and chop the yams into thick rounds (about as thick as a finger). Sometimes I make them chunky, sometimes they’re more dainty slices—go with your mood.
3. Layer the yam slices in a baking dish. Try to overlap them a bit. It looks nicer but, honestly, they’ll rearrange themselves once the syrup goes in.
4. Melt the butter in a saucepan, then add the sugar, water (or OJ), cinnamon, nutmeg, salt, and vanilla. Give it a good stir until melty and thick-ish; don’t panic if it looks separated for a second. This is where I usually sneak a finger-dip of syrup—hot, so be careful!
5. Pour the syrup over the yams, using a spoon or spatula to coat everything. The yams will float up and look silly, but it all settles down later.
6. Cover with foil and bake for about 30 minutes. Then, take off the foil and bake another 25-35 minutes until the yams are super soft and starting to candy at the edges (don’t worry if some pieces look a little toasty—those ends are my favorite bits).
7. If you’re into marshmallows, toss a layer on top in the last 5 minutes and broil. Otherwise, serve as is, syrupy and gooey.

Notes Only Someone Who Messed Up Would Know

These taste pretty good cold, but I think they’re best at room temperature—less sticky that way. Actually, they almost get creamier if they sit out for an hour after baking; I have no clue why. Oh, and don’t stress if the syrup looks thin when you take the dish out. Give it a few minutes to rest, and it thickens up. (One time I overcooked them and ended up with yam candy that you almost needed a chisel for, so keep an eye out; nothing wrong with a little character, though.)

If You Wanna Shake Things Up (Or Don’t)

• I once swapped half the brown sugar for maple syrup. Super tasty, but a bit more runny. Next time, I might use less liquid.
• Pecans on top? Yes please, unless my nephew is coming (allergies, you know how it goes).
• Some folks make their yams with a splash of bourbon. I tried it at Christmas. Didn’t love it. Felt like the yams were at a party I wasn’t invited to.
• Cutting the sugar in half works for lunch or a non-dessert vibe, but then it’s almost like a roasted veggie side. Not a bad thing, though—it’s a mood.

Let’s Talk Equipment (But Don’t Worry)

I usually use a 9×13-inch glass dish to bake these, but honestly, I’ve made yams in an old roasting pan, even once in a cast iron skillet—it works as long as it holds everything. Don’t have a saucepan? Microwave the butter and sugar together (I’d use 30-second bursts and watch the explosion risk). You do you.

What About Leftovers? (Not That You’ll Have Any)

In theory, these keep in the fridge 3–4 days in a covered container—but honestly, in my house it never lasts more than a day! They reheat best covered in the oven, but I’ve microwaved single servings with no regrets.

Serving? Here’s How I Like Them

Most folks put candied yams on the holiday table next to turkey or ham, but I say they elevate Tuesday’s roast chicken just as well. My cousin drags out ice cream for dessert when I make these—one sneaky scoop of vanilla alongside warm yams is actually kind of brilliant. Oh, at Thanksgiving, my uncle insists on crushed pecans on top (tradition, or so he claims), but only half the pan because my aunt “likes things plain.” The struggle is real!

Pro Tips (From My List of Regrets)

• Don’t try to rush the syrup; I once cranked up the heat and burnt the whole thing to a caramel brick. Patience, grasshopper.
• Leave the yams covered for that first half-hour; skipping this step dries them out and then they’re just…sad.
• Err on the side of thicker yam slices. Skinny slices can go mushy real quick—live and learn, right?
• Don’t overdo the vanilla. More isn’t better, I promise.

By the way, if you want to nerd out about the difference between yams and sweet potatoes, Southern Living has a really thorough (and kinda funny) breakdown. For sourcing the best yams, I actually like to check Local Harvest for nearby farmer stands.

Actual FAQ (Because I Get Texts Every Time)

• Can I make these ahead? Oh, totally. I think this tastes better the next day anyway. Just let them cool, refrigerate, then reheat gently.
• Do I have to peel yams? You don’t have to, but I always do. The skin doesn’t get soft enough to ignore, in my opinion.
• Can I use canned yams? I’ve done it once when fresh were like $5 a pop in the winter; just drain well—they cook much faster, so watch out.
• What size yams should I buy? Medium ones are best; the giant ones can be starchy or weirdly stringy, but it’s not the end of the world if that’s all you find.
• Is this dessert or a side? Officially? Side dish. Secretly? My second helping is always dessert.

Oh and before I forget: If you find yourself halfway through and realize you forgot one ingredient, keep going. I once left out butter and just splashed in a bit more OJ, and everyone asked why it was so “refreshing.” So, who really knows? Happy cooking! If this winds up inspiring you to tinker with your old family recipes, then my job here is done (at least until you text me for the sweet potato pie recipe…)