Michelle Wildgen’s You’re Not You is a deeply sensual book, a Natural History of the Senses for foodies. “The kitchen smelled so rich—” says Bec, the novel’s central character, “all wine and meat and thyme and onion—it seemed we should be able to taste the air.” A chef’s knife is “a thing of beauty… its sleekness, its weighted, steady handle, its diamond point.” Empty plates “[gleam] with oil and… [bear] hardened, white smears of goat cheese.” Even anxiety is fruitlike: “I felt a plum-sized knot of misgiving.” There is much in this world to savor, Wildgen suggests. I’m not a foodie, but by the end of You’re Not You, I considered buying a steely knife of my own.

Bec, a college student, has an excellent teacher in the kitchen. Kate “used to love to cook” but now has ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease), uses a wheelchair at thirty-six years old, and requires twenty-four-hour care. Bec is her caregiver. When not working, Bec is sleeping with a married professor and skipping most of her classes at U. Madison. She’s a bumbler, a little tactless. She wanders into things without fully considering the consequences. “What were you?” she asks bluntly at one point, meaning Kate, meaning pre-ALS. But it’s an honest question, and Bec’s lack of self-censorship suits Kate. Worse would be condescension.

—Lara Tupper