Newfoundland is affectionately called 'the rock' and this accurately reflects the farming potential of most of the island. Until quite recently (1980s) when transcontinental transport became affordable and ubiquitous, the diet of the middle to lower classes was bereft of fresh produce. I grew up in the 1960s in St John's, and as a child I remember potatoes and root vegetables with every dinner. The winning triad included boiled potatoes, carrots and turnip. On special occasions, like Christmas, we would have pease pudding and cabbage. For added flavor, a piece of salt beef would be added to the boil up. My mother served the potatoes and turnips mashed (but not together) and the carrots in chunks. They all softened at different times, so the potatoes were done before the carrots and the carrots before the turnip, so a delicate fishing expedition was held at various times in the process. My cousin Maureen once instructed me, upon reflecting on the process, "Put a stone in the pot with the turnip and when the stone is soft, the turnip is cooked." I don't think she liked turnip. My Dad and I both loved mashed turnip, though. It was mashed with margarine and salt and pepper and we both put Cross and Blackwell mustard pickles on them. In the early 80s, Mom and Dad were feeling prosperous enough to afford a winter holiday in Florida. They would drive from their home in New Brunswick in mid-March and stay for 3 weeks. Dad's three older brothers and their wives would be there at the same time, so each year they reconnected and recreated the beloved meals of their homeland. For the most part, the Newfs felt quite at home in their warmer, southern neighbor. They all developed tans and wore shorts everyday, a foreign experience for Newfs who grew up on cool and cloudy summers. All was going smoothly until the shocking truth about American turnips was revealed. There, bold as brass, labeled in the Piggly Wiggly, were small, white bulbous items labeled Turnips. My aunt looked at them with obvious disgust. "Young fella, do you have any turnips?" She asked sweetly of the man in the apron, stacking melons. "Yes, Ma'am. Here they are right here." He stopped at the white vegetables that were certainly not turnips. "Those are NOT turnips. Can I speak to the manager?" "Yes, Ma'am. I will get him," said the boy, clearly questioning his own knowledge (and life choices) when faced with the four-foot confident dynamo which was my aunt. A few minutes later, a slightly older man with a matching green apron approached. "May I help you, Ma'am? I am Tim, the produce manager." "Well, Tim, there seems to be some mistake here. These small things here are NOT turnips. They must be labelled wrong." "Oh, yes. They are turnips, Ma'am." My aunt gets visibly more agitated and opens her mouth to question the intelligence of the smiling man. He jumped in. "Are you Canadian, by chance?" She smoothed her skirt, put her chin up and answered with confidence. "Yes, I'm from Newfoundland, sir. That is NEW FOUND LAND as in un-der-stand. We hate it when Americans put the accent on the second syllable." "Well, I know what the problem is. What you are looking for are RUTABAGAS." He walked to the end of the aisle and picked up a gnarly, thick-skinned, larger yellow root vegetable. "There they are! You must be some stunned down here to call turnips RUTABAGAS!" She took two and walked away as the manager smiled and shook his head. Ten years later, I married an American with a strict aversion to rutabagas. Not only can I not easily find the turnips I like in the States, he also cannot stand the smell of them cooking. So I have not had them since 2017, when I visited my cousins in Newfoundland and we had a boil up. So, on a day when I feel nostalgic and homesick, I hunger for turnip (rutabaga in American). Susan Fagan Las Vegas, NV, USA