were you wondering what to get me for Christmas?

Jasmine March, the zaftig heroine of this wickedly funny first novel, is a Washington cookbook writer who pines for the days of Louis XIV, ''when men were gluttons and proud of it.'' Jasmine herself has a prodigious appetite: her husband, Daniel, fell for her when he spotted her eating a tarragon chicken croissant with near orgasmic rapture. Jasmine moisturizes with olive oil, perfumes herself with truffle oil and has explored the erotic potential of snail butter.

On the book's first page, Jasmine discovers a corpse (the tart of the title) sprawled on her kitchen floor, bludgeoned to death with a rolling pin, a homemade brownie stuffed in its mouth...

With the caveat that tarragon tastes uncannily like dishwashing liquid, I'm definitely with her so far. The review says no recipes, which is a hopeful sign. Murder mysteries without Nero Wolfe with recipes in them all stink.

I'm not going to have too much to say this weekend, I don't think. I'm exhausted and making less sense than usual I want to bake cookies.