A Certain Hunger: Chelsea G. Summers

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dorothy states this towards the end of the novel in one of the most confessional, intimate moments (and i know its placing there is deliberate. please. it is probably one of the few writing choices that feels truly deliberate.). and this moment serves, explicitly, as the true thesis of the book. it is the reason why dorothy devours the men that she sees as integral to her identity. not just because women can be serial killer too, can commit despicable too - but because of something entirely human, taken to an extreme. Ugh, this book. Murderous, cannibalistic cougar food critic got my attention, but it was like the author stopped at that idea herself and never went further. Apparently this was meant to be a sort of “Hey, women can be evil, too” treatise, but instead of developing that idea we get chapter after chapter of our psychopathic narrator detailing all the food and sex she has, and the endless murders and consumption of her lovers.

Though perhaps she knows I’d never approve the visit and she’s merely applying to toy with me. That’s not a possibility I’m willing to indulge, on the off chance that she appears some Sunday afternoon, dripping Vivienne Westwood and Guerlain Nahema. I don’t even open Emma’s letters.) dorothy also compares herself, a white gentile woman, to anne frank, which is made even worse by something else we have to discuss later on regarding this book. Instead, we move toward an ending which simply echoes the beginning. There are even a couple of near-the-end chapters that seem gratuitous to me, a fleshing out of the great execution of the whole conceit.There’s gristle in her toothsome tale. Dorothy has had certain other hungers too. The reader has become a willing victim, following her along, but finally she thrusts a metaphorical shiv: She did find love, near-perfect love, and it scared her nearly to death. “I like being by myself, you see. I just didn’t want to be alone. And now I never will be,” she says; now she’s in prison for life.

Food critic Dorothy Daniels loves what she does. Discerning, meticulous, and very, very smart, Dorothy's clear mastery of the culinary arts make it likely that she could, on any given night, whip up a more inspired dish than any one of the chefs she writes about. Dorothy loves sex as much as she loves food, and while she has struggled to find a long-term partner that can keep up with her, she makes the best of her single life, frequently traveling from Manhattan to Italy for a taste of both. Any carnivore will tell you: Sometimes you enjoy a cut of meat more for its flavor than its tenderness. A rich bavette steak, a crisply fried pig’s ear, a long-simmered mutton roast.

Chelsea G. Summers

What makes this so remarkable is the same choice skill that makes one cook better than another. Summers writes with humor and precision. It feels like fine dining with words, or at least verbal fusion cooking. Think of lingua al fredo, or maybe a salad of romans lettuce. It’s a cleverness that runs throughout. To this, I laughed. I know what I am. It may not appear in the DSM-5, but just because you can’t prescribe a pill for us doesn’t mean we don’t exist. As I say, there’s no reason an over-the-top sexploitation style story should be so thoughtfully rendered, but thank goodness it is. the entire concept of dorothy having a meltdown and starting to blame emma makes absolutely no sense. dorothy was suspected way before she ever even POSSIBLY told emma anything, at all. so that entire plot point is either a huge plot hole by chelsea or it's yet again another example of how stupid dorothy is. Reading about murder hasn’t ever been my hard point; but combining food and cannibalism reminded me of Bones’s serial killer; Gormogon 🫣