Reeks like home

And speaking of crazy cookbooks, I guess I’d better lasso my tongue about one on its way out that is shockingly bad — esthetically, factually and every other which way from bogus. Thanks to the addiction that ate my life, Twitter, I hear I am in deep merde for dissing Julia’s opus No. 1. But I’m not losing any sleep because my chances of crossing path$ there are as slim as my coming back as a Frenchwoman. I’ll save my energy for biting back my WTFs on some truly insane recipes overseen by someone with new-age clout. And I’ll do that while sadly acknowledging why food bloggers are not, as my Tweeting connection put it, challenging the establishment rather than acting like wide-eyed groupies. The gravy train takes on the compliant.