Housekeeping.

We had some expectant friends over for dinner this week. By expectant, I mean full-term, full waddle, ready to pop, turkey's done, boil some water, get this kid out of me expectant, if you know what I'm saying. We thought that if we didn't soon lure them to our house with promises of comfort food and pillows for a certain mama's back, we wouldn't see them until that baby is kicking and screaming on the outside, and I figure that eating dinner is more easily done while not wrangling a swaddled wee babe with one arm.

I made Deb's mushroom bourguignon and Molly's marmalade cake, and I can't recommend both of them enough. Erik, who isn't a sweets person, raved over the cake (it is as sophisticated and homey as Molly says), and the mushrooms and egg noodles make us all feel vaguely goofy and happy and warm on the inside. Maybe that was also the red wine and Jameson's we -- well, three of us -- used to toast the impending arrival of this kid. However the combination worked, it did, and it was a lovely evening. The next time we see those two, there will be three, which is more thrilling than I can say.

But it made me realize just how dependent I've become on the blogosphere for cooking. Sitting down with a stack of a cookbooks is an activity for a languorous Saturday afternoon, time I just don't have anymore. (Fingers crossed it returns at some point.) But printing out a recipe for dinner before shutting down my work computer at night -- that's something I can handle. Inevitably, though, I leave the recipe on the printer before heading home, so half the time I cook with my laptop open on the butcher block. My MacBook screen has grease splatters on it. I know I'm not the only home cook guilty of that.

Laurie Colwin once wrote unapologetically about her ever-expanding collection of cookbooks, and I remember reading that and thinking, Thank goodness someone else does this too. You know what I mean: a ragged copy of the Hershey cookbook picked up in an antiques store begets the Gourmet Today cookbook bought for 40 percent off at a big chain bookstore, and that begets your grandmother's I Hate to Cook Book, and then comes the wonderful Cake Bible because you can't have a kitchen without it, and before you know it, you've got three overflowing shelves of cookbooks, several of which you haven't cracked in a year. But I wouldn't part with any of them.

Lindsey Shere's almond tart keeps the Chez Panisse Desserts book on my shelf, as well as her delectable recipe for chocolate mousse. Edna Lewis's wise words puts her books on the top of the rotation, and my aunt Letha's penciled visage on page 126 keeps a spot for Coastal Carolina Cooking on the shelf. Never mind I will never, ever use her recipe for souse.

So then how is it that the recipes we use the most right now are bedraggled, stained pieces of black-and-white printouts hung on the fridge? I feel like my cookbooks are staring balefully at me from their shelves, like I've betrayed them in some fundamental way. Craig Claiborne is nattering behind his hand to Scott Peacock, saying, what a flighty girl's kitchen we've landed in this time. She just likes the look of us on the shelf. Doesn't she know it's what's between the covers that counts? Scott, in his gentle-son-of-Alabama way, agrees and wanders off to make a drink. He's got no time for this nonsense.

It's a good thing we're not having children right now. I can't even give my cookbooks the attention they deserve. But today's a snowy day, and my street is getting re-blanketed yet again, so I might wander into the kitchen and say hi to a few. Here's hoping the Junior League ladies of Lafayette, Louisiana, will say hi back.