We hated her for it.” What better way for a certified female psychopath (Dorothy glories in her unequivocal diagnosis) to metaphorically kill such a mother than to become a food critic who eviscerates other people’s creations? “My mother was a witch in the kitchen and a Demeter in the garden. Her mother “made it all, and she made it well,” Dorothy recalls: bread, home-canned tomatoes, even her own butter. Some of Dorothy’s memories are, at least, bittersweet. This is hardly new in our literature from Jonathan Swift’s “ A Modest Proposal” to Hannibal Lecter’s penchant for liver to the unforgettable scene in “ The Road” and even the crazed parody of the French film “ Delicatessen,” the notion of eating human flesh has simultaneously attracted and repelled bookish tastes for centuries. Dorothy has a lot to say and at times her tangents about truffle hunting, prison cuisine and acrobatic love-making threaten to distract from the juicy marrow of her confessions.ĭorothy will get to the circumstances of her arrest in good time, but she lets us know at once about her passion (food of all kinds), profession (restaurant critic) and obsession (cannibalism). Meet Dorothy Daniels, now 50-something and incarcerated at Bedford Hills, the supposedly upscale women’s prison in Connecticut where Stewart also did time, albeit for a different crime.
Summers’ debut novel, requires some chewing, and that is mostly - as Martha Stewart would put it - a good thing.
A rich bavette steak, a crisply fried pig’s ear, a long-simmered mutton roast. Any carnivore will tell you: Sometimes you enjoy a cut of meat more for its flavor than its tenderness.
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