Foodie fiction has become a veritable genre, devoted to deliciousness, to making your mouth water, to making you feel suddenly, irrevocably starved — and to making everything, sprouts and bologna included, an aphrodisiac. But what happens when enough is enough? Or when, perhaps, you're on a diet, or a deserted island, or attempting celibacy, or learning to live without gluten? What happens when you're hungry for the kind of fiction that concerns food but isn't in love with food — and thereby won't make you hungry, or lustful, or both? If you'd like a peach tart not to be compared to a summer's day, or not to be turned on by descriptions of aubergines, or are alarmed by the suggestion that a relationship with onion rings can stand in for a relationship with a living, breathing, friend, devour these books. And feel full.
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