I hate celery. Loathe it. I hate it most cooked, floating all flaccid and stringy in an otherwise lovely broth. No, I hate it most raw. To me, it tastes like how Barbie doll heads smell. I sort of like how Barbie doll heads smell, but not enough to eat one. Imagine, after fussily searching and picking out each little green crescent, there's a sickening, plasticky crunch in your last bite of potato salad at the family picnic! And cousin Zeppelin says "How can you hate celery? It doesn't taste like anything." Dumb cousin. (This is a composite character. I do not have a cousin Zeppelin nor any other cousin who has specifically confronted my celery problem.)
But once every two years or so, I crave ants on a log. If you don't know, that is a stalk of celery with peanut butter in the "u" part and raisins on top. I buy a bunch of celery and I think about how I'll have ants on a log for lunch, and I eat ants on a log every day for a week. It's great!
Then that week is over and I think, "What did I do? Celery is repugnant!" and all returns to normal.
I think these last couple weeks, Woody Allen has been like celery to me. After I wound up hating both Sleeper and Manhattan, P worriedly rushed over with Annie Hall (which had moments, I admit) and Bullets Over Broadway which is so far my favorite by a long shot. Woody Allen is just more interesting when played by John Cusack. Plus Jennifer Tilly rocks and completely steals the show. (And just last week my visiting friends and I watched her and her cleavage kick ass at celebrity poker.) Now, any second, the postman will be delivering Deconstructing Harry and Hannah and her Sisters to my home. I shall report soon whether or not they top off my contrary-to-normal Woody Allen glut or no.