![]() ![]() While reading, I thought, “I, too am tuna salad at my core.” Throughout my life, I’ve understood my desirability as in conflict with my tuna salad core. ![]() If tuna is obtrusively smelly, ethnically distinct, and unsexy, in Milk Fed, Broder gives it an overt and lively sexuality. I’m a tuna fish salad sandwich.īroder’s latest novel, Milk Fed, is a reclaiming of tuna salad identity. He’s in love with this girl Brenda who is from a nouveau-riche, more Americanized, nose-jobbed, Jewish family. Philip Roth, may he rest in peace-in Goodbye, Columbus, the narrator is from a poor, Newark, mayonaisy, tuna salady, white fish salady Jewish family. I identify at my core level as a tuna salad sandwich. In her podcast “Eating Alone in my Car,” she gives a literary framing for her conceit of tuna salad as a symbol of marginality and unassimilated Jewishness: Broder allowed me to think of this act as feminist. ![]() Let it be known that I have eaten a tuna salad sandwich on an everything bagel during rush hour on the subway. From her popular twitter account Broder tweeted, “The seventh wave of feminism is a moist tuna salad sandwich ingested on public transport.” ![]() The “salad” part, as she points out, adds to the embarrassment one feels when ordering at a deli. I’ve long related to Melissa Broder’s musings on tuna salad. ![]()
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