Did anyone ever stop to ask why there’s only one day a year when we are supposed to eat yams? This tasteless tuber the color of carrots may be the least edible substance known to man.

What in the world is the logic of serving yams on a day for giving thanks? If gratitude is the game on this holiday, as it seems to be, it would be more logical to serve a grand repast without yams.

Now, I respect the fact that there’s a difference of opinion with regard to the yam and its cross-wise cousin, the “sweet” “potato” (which, let’s be frank, is neither of those things). But going against the grain is the reason they pay me the big bucks.

Plus, I’ve worked out a plan. It involves throwing the children off the scent by sending them out to purchase at the local vegetable department a large supply of fresh yams or “sweet” “potatoes.”

I’ve been working on this since my column last year attacking the turkey. That was about the mystery of why children are so insistent on eating at Thanksgiving one of those feathered rodents.

Or flying aardvarks, as I call the bird. (Certainly there’s a similarity in the hide, though aardvarks are easier to cook — no feathers — and carve, even if you do, as I suggested last year, cut your turkey with a chain saw.)

Father’s recipe for yams, proposed in this space last year, is not bad. It’s more traditional, where the gelatinous glop is topped with what I called that most glorious contraption, the marshmallow.

A number of complaints were filed after publication of my recipe. This is because it involved pureeing the yams and then throwing away all but a teaspoon of the gunk and placing the teaspoon’s worth into a casserole.

It also called for filling the rest of the dish with six pounds of marshmallows. Then baking it until the puffy sweets crust over to a golden brown. It is ideally served with lashings of brandy and brown sugar.

Of course, the average father can’t get away with that kind of stunt too many times. So what you want to do with the marshmallows this year is stuff them into the turkey where you’d normally put the savory stuffing.

Make sure the children don’t spot that maneuver. Just send them out to purchase some yams, suggesting they get, if they can possibly find them, the “less sweet” kind of low-glycemic yam.

Whatever that means. When they’re gone, race down to the basement or wherever you keep your stash of the great American staple known as Hungry Jack’s Traditional Mashed Potatoes.

I knew Jack personally, I like to claim, and I never knew why they called him hungry. If he were so all-fired hungry, he could’ve eaten the turkey. I would’ve named them Happy Jack’s Potatoes.

But why quibble? In addition to the potatoes, you want to get a copious supply of margarine. Plus, from the nursery, some orange-colored finger paints for children (which usually require no health warning).

When the children walk in with the sack of yams, you want to greet them with open arms and exclaim, “Oh, wonderful, you got the savory spuds.” Then send them off to play Monopoly.

When the coast is clear, you can put the yams in a garbage bag and stash them in the backyard. Now you cook up your Hungry Jacks, throwing in a cup of powdered garlic and chopped scallions.

Then you want to fold in your orange finger paint. Stir it all up until the Hungry Jacks take on a yam-like yellowish-orange glow. Then cover it with the unused savory turkey stuffing.

Place in oven and cook to taste. Ideally, the turkey and the baked “yams” will be ready at the same moment. Everyone will be gathered at the table, awaiting the annual giving of thanks.

This usually starts with some remarks in respect of the pilgrims and our veterans, then blessings over the bounty and a prayer of thanks to God. Then some remarks on how special and delicious are the savory yams.

No need to bring politics to the Thanksgiving table. But don’t forget to mention the surprise stuffing. You could even suggest that it’s so good the children might want to save it for dessert.