Of course, by granting cover to the craptastic, I’m guilty, too. I was fascinated by the Guardian’s recent dredging up of a contemporary review of one of my idol’s cookbooks. And it is pretty damned damning. But it also made me realize how seldom you see the truth hurting these days. I’ve Tweeted that “on the internet, everyone knows you’re an idiot,” but it’s equally true that logrolling has overwhelmed any attempts at honesty, at least outside of the comment sections. Print is not only not dead. It’s dominated by shitshows, yet every book’s a winner. And not only can you recycle recipes at will, you can even get an old-line book deal. If only the only woman who went to jail in the financial meltdown had known: Just add a fucking adjective to your purloined shrimp toasts and you’re even more golden.