I just came back from delivering dinner to my girlfriend, Amy, who gave birth last week. It was the same meal I’ve always made for postpartum girlfriends: roast chicken (it stays warm during the car ride and is big enough to provide leftovers for at least another day), a simple tossed salad (no breast-milk-tainting veggies like broccoli, which can upset baby’s stomach), orzo tossed with olive oil and feta (with a portion kept plain for finicky older siblings) and a big, buttery cinnamon apple cake to keep mom soothed and sated for at least a week of tears (hers or the baby’s).

While I trussed the bird, melted butter and measured out brown sugar, my mind tripped back to the time when the simple act of making a meal like this was akin to a circus stunt -- balancing a baby on one hip and dancing around the toddler who was busy pulling all my plastic containers out of the cabinets.

When I arrived at Amy’s, I reflexively remembered to fuss over her older son, Jack, and give him his big-brother present before I even glanced at his new little sister -- just to make sure he felt as special as always. Then I set out supper and scrammed. That’s the thing about motherhood and good friends: You don’t need to sit down at the same table to share a meal.