We’ve all seen the trend of female authors using human consumption to explore systemic rage. But I just think devouring a toxic man makes for a fantastic Sunday reset.
Last weekend, while deep in the trenches of my Sunday reset, I came across Alexandra Alter’s fascinating report in The New York Times on the rise of cannibalism novels with a feminist twist. According to the piece, female authors are increasingly drawn to this taboo topic as a raw, unflinching expression of female rage. And while I completely validate their journey and hear their truth, I couldn’t help but feel that we are overcomplicating things. To me, reading about a woman methodically preparing and consuming her terrible ex-boyfriend isn’t a harrowing indictment of patriarchal violence. It is, quite simply, the ultimate girl dinner.
There is something deeply grounding about curling up on a boucle sofa with a matcha latte and a 300-page narrative about a woman who solves her emotional labor deficit by braising her husband in a white wine reduction. As I devoured the pages of Chelsea G. Summers’s *A Certain Hunger*, I didn’t feel the crushing weight of systemic inequality. Instead, I found myself mentally bookmarking the protagonist's culinary techniques, wondering if I could substitute oat milk in the béchamel, and marveling at how efficiently she decluttered her life. We are all looking for ways to streamline our routines, and honestly, turning a toxic partner into a sustainable protein source is just good time management.
To truly honor the moment, I recently hosted a dinner party for my book club to discuss this emerging literary space. I wanted the evening to be highly curated. I sourced artisanal, locally-foraged mushrooms, opened a biodynamic orange wine, and asked the table a simple icebreaker: If you had to conceptually consume one man in your life to restore your energetic boundaries, what would the plating look like?
The responses were illuminating. Sarah, a corporate strategist, noted that her mid-level manager would probably require a very aggressive dry rub to mask the bitterness of his constant microaggressions. Chloe, a freelance graphic designer, opted for a slow-cooker approach for her landlord, arguing that his refusal to fix her radiator had already tenderized him for a low-and-slow braise. It was a beautiful, vulnerable space. We weren't actually plotting murder, of course. We were just doing the work.
The modern woman is profoundly fatigued, and sometimes the only literary protagonist she has the bandwidth to relate to is one who treats a mediocre man as a locally sourced ingredient.
It’s fascinating how quickly the algorithm caught on to my new literary preferences. Within days of finishing my first feminist cannibalism thriller, my Instagram feed seamlessly transitioned from ads for weighted blankets to targeted promotions for heavy-duty bone saws and artisanal butcher blocks. Brands are clearly recognizing that the modern woman’s wellness journey no longer stops at a ten-step skincare routine. Even Goop has quietly launched a conscious carnivore newsletter, pivoting away from jade eggs and toward bespoke cleaver sets forged by female blacksmiths in upstate New York. I didn't buy one, but I felt seen.
Last month, I took this exploration a step further and attended a wellness retreat in Ojai that centered entirely around "shadow work and sustainable consumption." The facilitator, a radiant woman in linen pants who had almost certainly never butchered anything larger than a pomegranate, led us through a guided meditation. We were instructed to close our eyes, unhinge our jaws, and envision swallowing our systemic oppression whole. I left the session feeling lighter, more aligned, and mildly craving a charcuterie board. It is amazing what you can achieve when you stop fighting the patriarchy and simply start digesting it.
Naturally, there has been pushback from the literary establishment. I sat next to a prominent male critic at a panel in Brooklyn last Tuesday—we were both speaking on the intersection of trauma and tote bags—and he was visibly distressed. He argued that the trend is gratuitous, that it alienates male readers who just want to enjoy a nice, quiet book about a sad detective with a drinking problem. I simply smiled, offered him a locally sourced fig, and told him that his discomfort was valid, but my peace was a non-negotiable.
My own husband, Peter, has been incredibly supportive of my foray into the feminist cannibal aesthetic. When he saw my nightstand piling up with novels featuring blood-splattered covers and titles like *Boy Parts*, he didn’t flinch or ask if we needed couples counseling. Instead, he thoughtfully reorganized the kitchen to make room for the premium meat grinder I ordered during a particularly empowering chapter. He knows that a woman stepping into her power can be intimidating, but he is willing to do the work of staying out of the marinade.
Ultimately, the feminist cannibalism novel is not about violence. It is about curation. It is about looking at the overwhelming, messy reality of being a woman in the world and deciding to plate it beautifully with a sprig of rosemary. If female authors need to write about eating men to process their rage, I am here to consume their art. And if I happen to treat their harrowing literary metaphors as a mood board for my next kitchen renovation, well, that is just my truth.