Haralambi Markov's piece "The Language of Knives" tells the story of a broken family by way of preparing and baking a dead man into a cake. It's beautiful, heartbreaking and feels like a fresh (although painful) breath of air. Having written a couple of making-people-into-food stories myself, I found myself wondering how many stories like that are out there. It's certainly an ancient story concept, either as an offering for the gods, or in order to absorb another person's essence. (a favorite: the Knights Templar were accused of baking little children into bread. They may also have been accused of kissing chicken butts.) What Markov does feels very old and very new at the same time. Go read.