Oh, to be young and naive once again. Glorious times really, though not without the occasional hiccup: bad hair, truly hideous wardrobe choices, the awkwardness abounds.

When I was sixteen years old I ventured deep into the catacombs of a local coffee house to catch the ten o’clock showing of Babette’s Feast. I was there willingly, though not entirely by choice. My date was going through something of an arty phase at the time, and as she had a car and I didn’t, so was I. It goes without saying that coffee houses rate a solid Defcon 5 when it comes to stacking the most pretentious places one could ever watch a movie.

The excessive amount of berets in the audience should have tipped me off. I know that now.

To add insult to injury, I don’t even drink coffee. The first – and only – time I ever tried a cup, I wound up dry-heaving for two hours straight. Once was more than enough. To this day I pass by coffee shops with suspicion, completely vexed as to how people can drink that bitter bean juice with a smile on their face. I have no business in a coffee house. Not then. Not now.

I hated every last minute of the experience, which I assure you was both excruciating and eternal.

I’ve carried a grudge against Babette’s Feast ever since.

It’s been thirty-three years. The girl I went to see the movie back in the day is lost to history. I’m married now, with kids. There’s an ocean of difference between that teenager in the eighties and who I am today. But the more things change, the more they stay the same. Babette’s Feast still plagues me.

Lately, I’ve found the film inescapable, My own private cinematic stalker.

Case in point. I’m listening to an episode of Leonard Maltin’s podcast featuring Greg Proops as the guest, when they suddenly dovetail in a gush-fest singing Babette’s praises. Turncoats! A week later on Gilbert Gottfried’s podcast and Gilbert and Frank Santopadre transition from Pryor/Brando stories to fawning over the Babette’s Feast. And it’s not just podcasts. Pick your poison: articles, blogs, books, idle chitchat. Just like that stain on your favorite shirt, Babette’s Feast has staying power.

At some point I had to consider the hard truth that maybe, just maybe, I was the asshole in this situation. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve assumed that role in my life. It certainly wouldn’t be the last.

I decided I had to confront my past. I had to watch it one more time. To see if Babette’s Feast was as great as people say and that my initial distaste was merely the result of unsophisticated teenage angst, or if it still stank after all these years.

I’ll admit I was nervous. A good chunk of my existence is entangled in disliking this film. Were I to enjoy it now, after all these years, there were sure to be metaphysical consequences. Think Bill Murray in Ghostbusters, human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together, mass hysteria. Pure chaos for your chewing satisfaction.

I sucked in my gut and poured myself a glass of wine. I even gave myself the task of folding laundry so I couldn’t leave the room willy-nilly. We have three elementary aged kids. That’s a lot of laundry. I was in it for the long haul.

The ambience of my bedroom versus the coffee shop definitely helped things. And as you might imagine, the wine did its part to pitch in. I no longer hate Babette’s Feast. I no longer hate it, but I certainly don’t love it either. The screech of nails on a chalkboard has mellowed into a fly’s buzz. It was itchy and uncomfortable at times but I’ve been through worse. (Exhibit A: the first time I saw Babette’s Feast.) The cooking scenes were cool. I’ll give it that much. But for the most part I felt like I was watching an extended episode of Masterpiece Theater on PBS.

Someone wake me up when Nova or Nature is on.

I’m happy to announce that Babette’s Feast and I have made our peace after all these years. The feud is over. We’ve reached the proverbial fork in the road. Old friends saying goodbye one last time, never to see each other again.

Now who wants to watch Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle with me?