Yes, please invite me to dinner! I say that, but then I’ll ask you what you are making. Do you need a side dish? How about roasted Brussels sprouts with hazelnuts? The other day a good friend offered to make a birthday dinner for me. Do you want help with the menu, I asked, before I could stop myself. She said she would welcome it. I said I could make the salad. How about a green one with wild arugula, beets cut like matchsticks soaked in a lemon honey vinaigrette, topped with a goat cheese crostini mixed with chives? It was a pleasure to make that salad. I do like to cook and collaborate too, but I’m imagining some joy in not cooking.

Unfolding that napkin and placing it on my lap. Waiting for the oven door to open while taking in the warm smell of a lamb roast studded with garlic slowly cooking. Let someone else place the platter in the middle of the table. Their place settings, their candlelight. Let someone else pour the wine, serve seconds and yes, wash the dishes. It does sound good.

Please invite me to dinner. I’ll hold myself back. I’ll let you pull pots, pans and plates off the shelf, pore over cookbooks, magazines, search Epicurious. Let you prepare a warm broth, stir fry succulent vegetables, wash fresh crisp lettuces and toss them with pecans and oranges, take the roast out of the oven. You can decide on a dessert: a seasonal crisp, a chocolate soufflé, poached pears with Chianti or biscotti with Vin Santo. I’ll be your grateful guest. I’ll arrive with a good bottle of wine and an appetite. Next time, I’ll be happy to cook.