Thanks to Twitter, I see one of the early Krazy Rhymes-With-Lunts I worked for has finally gotten her recipe shit together and is about to inflict a cookbook on stores. When I was slaving for her, a poor beaten co-author was suffering mightily trying to extract information while she was dervishing around two kitchens like the ghost of Palin foretold. I’m just hoping the latest collaborator can include all the juicy bits, like how to shake roaches out of aprons before tying them on. At the very least I hope they’ll share how to tell when bread dough is properly risen: “It should feel like a 40-year-old woman’s boob.” Then again, I’ll believe the book when I see it. Googling her age to see if she really could be 66 now, I came across an NYTimes profile pegged to the forthcoming release of . . . yes, her cookbook. And that was in 1996. I suspect the acknowledgements are going to be quite something. Or should be.