Not to change the subject, but back in analog times in Los Angeles. a turnip was a turnip and a rutabaga a rutabaga, and grocery stores had rutabagas by the homely heapfuls come Thanksgiving. Admittedly it’s not a pretty thing, a rutabaga, sort of a dull sickly purplish on top and a messy dirty faded goldenrod on bottom, looking for all the world like someone just dug it out of the dirt and tossed it in the cellar with the potatoes. Inside, though, a rutabaga is a gorgeous orange, but you’d never know to look at it without cleaving it in twain. (No one cleaves anything in twain anymore, either.) Any store gentrifying its produce section is not going to want piles of rutabagas marring the perfection of the view. So now there’s only turnips in lovely white and purple piles in the grocery stores, prettier to look at than rutabagas, sure, if looking at turnips is your thing. So I’ll mash turnips this year. I didn’t just fall off the rutabaga truck, ya know.
OK, I did change the subject.