Chelsea G. Summers

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.

But there is something within Dorothy that's different from everyone else, and having suppressed it long enough, she starts to embrace what makes Dorothy uniquely, terrifyingly herself. Recounting her life from a seemingly idyllic farm-to-table childhood, the heights of her career, to the moment she plunges an ice pick into a man's neck on Fire Island, Dorothy Daniels show us what happens when a woman finally embraces her superiority.

A satire of early foodieism, a critique of how gender is defined, and a showcase of virtuoso storytelling, Chelsea G. Summers' A Certain Hunger introduces us to the food world's most charming psychopath and an exciting new voice in fiction.

A Certain Hunger

Sophia 

 Feminism comes to all things, it seems, but it comes to recognizing homicidal rage the slowest.

Isabelle

One learns so much about a person when one merely wants to fuck him. 

Jaydee (she/her)

tianna

The main thing that youth has going for it is porpoise-tight skin. Raw, wide-eyed newness is meaningless. Nostalgia for knowing nothing is asinine; you can't recapture it and you don't want to relive it. Better to sing a song of experience with your burning tiger's heart.

Helen 

peyton mckenzie

To eat human is to dine on a chimerical hybrid, a marvelous, mythical meat that has the sensuality of lamb combined with the poignancy of wild game and the naif quality of pork. To eat people is to get the taste of a Titan. It's infinite immortalization. It makes a god out of a woman. 

In prison terms, I eat well. On my terms, iť's wretched. Everything iS relative, and, here in prison, nothing is beautiful, except memory.

All humans are bad. Most of us merely live Our lives with our worst, most unethical acts lying like bodies clad in concrete, undiscovered, quiet, and dark. What is heaven but the hope for righteous acknowledgment, and what is hell but the fear of discovery. 

We talk about love like it's an involuntary act. We fall into love, like a hole, a puddle, an elevator shaft. We never step mindfully into love. Love, we seem to think, requires a loss of control; love necessitates that vertiginous giving over to gravity; love wants you to have no choice. Your heart thumps because there's danger and adrenaline in love. You lose yourself in love because you've displaced yourself. But dating sites and yentas, arranged marriages and speed dating, advice columns and blind dates, all argue that love is something we can manage, a losing that we can find. I suppose that if you walk into a minefield, you're more like- ly to explode; if you walk a country lane in the dark, you're more likely to trip; and if you put yourself in the path of dating, you're more likely to fall in love. I maintain that love can't simultaneously be an accident and a premeditated act, yet we treat it as if it is. Iť's a necessary fiction, love's Oxymoronic nature. Love's a contranym as sharp as "cleave" and twice as dangerouS.

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