Rule #78(c) in the Handbook of Life states:

When your friends experience the joy of childbirth, you must present them with a lasagna as you catch your first glimpse of the newly arrived.

So, when our neighbors two doors down had Alex last summer, I made a lasagna and trotted it over four days after his arrival. And when another couple we know had Charlie in November, I once again made a lasagna.

It's not like I make a mean lasagna. I'm great at enchiladas (my most recent variant, mango chicken with sweet potato, placed third at the New South Twisted Tastes Cookoff), and my chicken with black bean sauce is pretty damn good. Lasagna? Well, before Alex popped out, the last time I made lasagna was when I was 10 or 11, and my mom did most of the work.

My lack of a lasagna track record didn't daunt me in the least. I pretty much followed the recipe from the Fannie Farmer cookbook, except that I used Italian sausage in addition to hamburger, and I kicked up the pasta sauce with some extra oregano and basil and garlic. The chefs at the Magnolia Grill (a chi-chi restaurant just north of Duke) have a saying: "Not afraid of flavor." If I could afford it, I would eat there every meal. But not even Bill Gates could pay that tab. Still, I like the slogan, since that describes my (admittedly lesser) cooking as well.

Our friends accepted the lasagne (lasagne, by the way, is the proper plural of lasagna, no matter what your spell-check might say) with grace, and I assume they ate them. I never heard any complaints, so I figure they must have been alright.

And anyway, it just doesn't matter. Lasagna isn't really my milieu; it's just that you have to give new parents lasagna, so that's what I made. Doesn't matter if it's a good lasagna, as long as what you have in your hands resembles lasagna of some sort.

Maybe the Handbook is a little out of date. After Barbara delivered Max, the first food delivered to our door was eastern North Carolina barbecue. For the uninitiated, this consists of smoked pork, pulled and flavored with vinegar and chili peppers. It's an acquired taste, and while Bryant's and Gates and Sons in Kansas City have nothing to worry about, I have to admit developing a penchant for the local variety during my sojourn here in the New South.

We have also received pecan pies, oranges, sweet potato casserole, chocolate torte and beer. And, of course, three different kinds of lasagna.

Our neighbors brought us a veggie lasagna her mother (as opposed to his mother) made from a recipe in Southern Living. The ingredients consisted of black beans, spinach, cilantro, a healthy helping of cumin, pepper jack cheese and the usual ricotta, sauce and pasta.

While our neighbors weren't entirely sure about the level of spice, I have to tell you--this lasagna was fantastic. I'd run the whole recipe here, but I'm not in the mood to get sued by Southern Living. So if you want a copy, just e-mail me (the link is at the bottom of the column).

Charlie's parents presented us with a lasagna casserole. It followed the basic recipe, except that rotini were substituted for the big lasagna noodles. If you ask me, this might be the best way to whip the stuff up for a family. Instead of having to cut slices (and watch as the top layer inevitably decides to stick to the slice next to it), all you have to do is heat and scoop. Utterly utilitarian, to be sure. Believe me, when you've got a one-week-old baby, utilitarian is exactly what you want.

We received our last lasagna last week, from a teammate on Barbara's soccer teams (yes, now that she has a child, she's playing on two teams at once). This particular lasagna came with a whole loaf of garlic bread and the aforementioned chocolate torte. It took us four days to eat through all that food, and every bite was great. I didn't have to cook, so every evening we would heat up some lasagna, pour some wine and start to work our way through the five episodes of "24" that we've taped since Max arrived. Good evenings, all.

Maybe the Handbook is mostly right. The decided advantage of lasagna is that it contains stuff from all four food groups: grain (the noodles), fruits and vegetables (the sauce, and in the case of the veggie pie, a whole lot more), dairy (the cheese) and meat (well, except for the veggie, although the beans do count). There's no real need to whip up a salad or some other greens on the side if we don't want to do so. And lasagna is pretty filling. Unlike my chicken with black bean sauce, you're not hungry an hour after eating lasagna.

So the next time friends of ours have a baby, I'll probably make another lasagna. After all, it is the thing to do. Though I might opt for the black bean version. I just might have to perfect that particular recipe.

Jon Worley would like to emphasize that beer (with or without food accompaniment) is a most appropriate baby-warming gift.