Articles & Essays

The annual Fling the Fruitcake Off My Thighs Workout Frenzy started a little later than usual at my gym this year. I guess the new year’s motivation was no match for the tundra-type weather we’ve been having. And the stretch pants were still holding out.

But begin it has. Recently, I hovered near the staff desk, looking at the crowd and trying to decide which torture to start with. I was delaying by stretching my left wrist, which I broke this summer, when a new trainer bounced up to introduce herself.

Now, my gym - it calls itself a “wellness center,” which is code for “no-Spandex zone” - is fine. Even if the trainers are so young, they think “menopause” is Spanish for when you temporarily stop a hand-held video game. When I accomplish some stretch so simple that a 95-year-old could do it with her walker, they seem amazed that I am still functioning.

The new trainer asked how I broke my wrist. I gave my standard reply that it was during a roller derby match, as Moose the Marauder. (Much more interesting than what really happened, which was simple klutziness.)

 Her eyes got real big. When I said, “Not really,” she laughed and said she was about to ask for my autograph because she loves roller derby. “I’ve seen it where some of the women are....” she scanned my face intently for signs of my age, then decided it was best for business not to guess. “All ages.”

The right answer. I liked her.

The conversation turned to food and cooking, of course.

She said, “I told my father the other day that I was cooking. He said, ‘I’ll go ahead and call the fire department.’”

Talking to her, I realized the way many 20-somethings look at cooking today has changed little from when I was that age (back when we made wild-caught mastodon carpaccio). They just have more and easier ways to avoid it than I did.

When I was just out of college, my cooking goals were simple: cheap and fast. I could do more things with frozen Chinese vegetables, canned chicken, yogurt and frozen waffles than Mario Batali can do with pasta. I would have been great on “Iron Chef America,” had it existed, because my meals were created from secret ingredients in the back of the refrigerator.

At that time, there were no supermarket food bars or precut vegetables, and food delivery options were sparse in the small town where I lived. I had to pick up a knife occasionally; a dinged-up, barely sharp knife I’d swiped from my mother. It might have been a steak knife in its earlier life.

Today, my trainer friend can hunt-and-gather in any grocery store, or order just about any kind of food.

I told her about a recent project - making ravioli using Asian dumping wrappers and a cheese filling. She was enthusiastic, asking exactly how to seal the wrappers together (a wet finger and pressure) and how to tell when they’re done (they float in boiling water).

The most important thing, I cautioned her, is not to put in too much filling or the ravioli will pop open while they’re cooking. A tablespoon is enough, I told her.

“A tablespoon? I’ll have to buy one of those,” she said. “I think I have a pot.”

But cooking makes her so tired, she said. Tired? She’s a fitness trainer. She ought to be able to jog a mile while making a stir fry.

What if you really could combine cooking and exercise...and someone already has. Sort of. The Nintendo WII game system offers several food-related games, most simply contests using food as a theme. But there is one that says it teaches cooking as well.

The “Cooked or Be Cooked” game, based on the Food Network show, offers recipe challenges and about 30 actual recipes, plus tips and techniques. The WII controllers move the utensils on the screen. But it’s still a competition game: “Cook with or against your friends!” the description reads.

When I viewed the demo video online, I had the same thought I have when I see kids whaling on “Guitar Hero” in an electronics store: If you spent that much time practicing, you could learn to play a real instrument. Same with cooking. A little time is all you need.

Although you would have to buy a tablespoon.