Years ago, I cooked up some turnips, mashed them, served them with butter and salt, and told my kids they were mashed potatoes--because like typical kids they were reluctant to try certain things. They looked like potatoes; even tasted like potatoes. That didn't make it so. And I'm not sure they trusted me on vegetable night after that. Today I didn't straighten my hair, and I think I'm going to pass as Megyn Kelly. If you don't like my fantasy, you're a bigot.
Rachel’s adopted siblings are black; she isn’t. Sib-envy?