For Whom the (Dinner) Bell Tolls.... (it's not for me.)

It's widely acknowledged by those who know me that I'm not the world's best cook. I'm generally OK with that. I don't find joy in cooking. And people expect to eat every stinking day.

I used to love to back with Ali back before she got all fancy and started measuring things by weight and making complicated recipes. That's still super fun for her, and we get the benefits of it, but I'm more the sous chef/dishwasher in that equation.

Jeff loves to cook, and like Ali, there's no recipe too complicated for him to try. In the weeks of sheltering at home, he's borne the biggest burden of putting dinner together. We generally fend for ourselves for breakfast and lunch, though we sometimes will double the salad or sandwiches we start if the other happens to want lunch at the same time.

Ali remains solidly against sandwiches unless they're hot dogs or hamburgers, and her lunches are usually Ramen or pizza or cereal depending on when she stumbles out of bed.

The other day, Jeff tried a recipe that had pork marinating in grapefruit juice all day. It was fine, but not as exotic as he'd hoped. Ali has made dinner using a recipe from our friend Miss Sidi, and another one from an African food cookbook I'd bought her years ago and she'd never used. My meals since March have included a stir fry that started with a Birds-eye-bag, my signature lasagna and, hmmm. I'm not sure of what else. Sausage and peppers one night, for sure. A quiche weeks ago? Oh! Two dishes from the "At Home" section of the NY Times in recent weeks.

"I really haven't been doing much lately when it comes to dinner," I remarked, more to myself than anyone else.

"Nope," he agreed.

I offered to cook more often, but reminded my dinner companions that I don't really have a big range. After a while of agreeing with me but then deciding it had gone on a wee bit too long, Ali started defending me. She likes my sausage and peppers, for example, which Jeff decries because the vegetables aren't crispy like you'd get in a Chinese restaurant.

"That's not how we like them," we argued to no avail. Jeff is, above all things, a devotee of "real" chefs and their techniques.

Anyway, the end result was me cooking dinner last night. We took a family walk to the Fresh Market for some produce and bread. Ali and I were going to lay in the sun and read, and I'd planned to join her as soon as my meal prep was done. By the time I'd assembled all the marinades, washed and cut the veggies, she was starting to toast.

Dinner was fine. Like Jeff's grapefruit and pork, my pork hadn't absorbed much of the orange and lemon juice and zest I'd scraped and squeezed until my biceps complained. I enjoyed mine with a glass from a bottle of wine our friend Sami had gifted us a while back.

The wine was superb. The roasted vegetables are part of my short culinary repertoire, so they were good. The pork? Well, it was fine. Which is part, I think, of my ambivalence to preparing food.

Putting it all together had robbed me of time I could have spent lazing in the sun and it wasn't a meal we'll remember -- or duplicate.

To be clear, I love good food and have the chubby frame to prove it. But even when your dish comes out as perfectly as the recipe describes and everyone loves it, it's gone in 15 minutes, leaving only a kitchen full of dirty dishes and soiled napkins in its wake.

Now, I've had some great times in the kitchen with Ali and/or Jeff making food, listening to music and kidding around. We can even have fun cleaning up. But we've had wonderful times with take-out, too. In fact, we had King Rib just the other day at a living room floor picnic. And THAT, we will do again. And again.

My point, I guess, is that for me, the gathering around the food is more important than the origin of the food.  Betty Crocker I am not. But I'll try harder to contribute to the dinner chore.

In other news, Ali talked me into doing a You Tube yoga workout called Psychetruth Fat Burning Yoga with Sanela Osmanovic. Sanela is a lovely young woman who has zero body fat but a sunny disposition. She knows she looks good, and I suspect she knows that her audience may not.

She's a gentle torturer, though, and tries really hard to sound like she's in as much pain as you are. She's not. You know she's not. But she tries so hard to empathize you keep trying to keep up.

It helps, slightly, if your 19-year-old daughter is also in pain as she gasps, "Come on, Mom. You got this. You can do it."

It's like Sanela in stereo. Before she let us go, our new friend Sanela reminded us that we'd done a great job working on our bodies and we needed to remember to make it a part of our routine, and to also not negate our efforts by eating bad foods.

Jeff wandered through as we toughed it out. Proving that he IS a great husband, he encouraged us and did not take pictures. Although, later, as we laid around in pain, flinching at the thought of what the morning would bring when we tried to move, he asked if we were going to do it again today.

We have put dates with Sanela on the calendar for every three days. Ali is here all summer and we've pledged to keep each other honest in our goals. Day one, I had dinner and wine. Ali had dinner, and mac-n-cheese at midnight. So, you know, we're easing into it.

Today, despite my stiffness, I joined Jeff on a bike ride. Ali stayed home and did an arm work-out. I was worried that I wouldn't be able to walk once I got off the bike, but so far, so good. I went straight to the bathroom, downed two Aleve and showered for a good 10 minutes. Now, I'm finishing Sami's wine.

My guess is Sanela doesn't drink wine. I should introduce her to Sami.