It's one thing to cook for yourself or your family; it's another thing entirely to cook for people who make their living eating, writing about food, dealing with food, and so on. These people are very frequently called "foodies," and it just so happens that four of them joined me for lunch recently.

No big deal, I thought, these are friends and colleagues and food is not the point after all. We're all too blasé and professional for that, aren't we? Visiting together is the point! Passing the afternoon enjoying each other's company is the point! And so it was, but truth be told, food was the point, too.

My visitors all work for the food section of The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, and we all write for the paper together. Actually, "together" is not exactly the word I want -- they are there, and I am here, but through the miracle of modern computers, I write for the paper's food section on a frequent basis and e-mail my articles in to the food editor, Suzanne Martinson. It was a lovely fall day when they came out, and although my house was clean and the table set, this placid scene belied the sundry mishaps that led up to lunch.

First, there was deciding what to serve. In this day and age, you never know what people are avoiding or allergic to. The simpler the better, therefore, and I decided on a simple-but-substantial salad, homemade applesauce, and buttermilk biscuits. What could be easier?

Lots of things, it turns out. First of all, I neglected to take the Gorgonzola out of the fridge until moments before my guests were due to arrive. Duh, I thought to myself. They're going to think I don't know enough to let the cheese come up to room temperature. Everyone knows cheese is always better at room temperature! I considered putting it on a plate in a low oven for a few minutes, but was worried I'd forget all about it and have a runny mess on my hands. So the Gorgonzola stayed on the counter and mocked me silently from its plate.

Next there was the lettuce to deal with. I'd bought the lettuce they have in bags, as it is already cleaned and seems to stay fresh longer. That "already cleaned" thing, though -- I don't know. Many are my maidenly blushes when I tell you that I often don't bother rinsing the lettuce again, even though I think I probably should just to be safe.

So that choice paralyzed me for a few minutes -- rinse again and then have to run it through the salad spinner and pat it dry with a towel? Skip it altogether? After all, as Julia Child once stated so mercifully, "Remember, you are all alone in the kitchen and no one can see you."

But the guilt got to me, and so I rinsed and spun and patted dry. During the spinning, the top of the salad spinner came loose and myriad bits of spinach and radicchio and romaine came flying up. I picked myself clean and plowed on.

The salad was mostly assembled, the dressing already made. What to do next? Not wanting to have dirty dishes lying around after lunch, I decided that it would be best to get the clean dishes out of the dishwasher now. Then I, the perfect hostess, could smoothly and graciously fill the dishwasher after lunch! Wonderful idea!

So as I emptied the glasses from the top rack, I did my usual unconscious shtick of wiping the last residual bit of water from the top of each glass and mug on my pants. I do this all the time; I don't know why I do it. Whatever the reason, though, I'd dried at least four glasses this way before I thought to look down and see that my pants had wet swipe marks on the front. A change of pants was in order.

Even the applesauce had to be difficult. I'd spooned it into these exceedingly cute little individual beehive-shaped bowls we have. Then moments before my guests were due, I looked in dismay into the bowls and saw that the applesauce had separated somewhat. Have you ever tried stirring applesauce in a teeny, tiny little bowl? No? Then do try my handy method of stirring it with such vigor so that it slops over the side of each bowl. Throw in a few curses, a desperate search for a larger bowl into which to decant the rogue applesauce, a few quick stirs therein, a fast, splashing rinse of the darling beehive-shaped bowls which you now hate with all your heart, a toweling-dry of said bowls, and a final resituating of the applesauce back where it belongs.

My guests arrived and all was well. We all enjoyed the lunch, and even indulged in a chocolate pecan pie with whipped cream for dessert. The afternoon was crisp and lovely, the fire pleasantly crackling, and the conversation opinionated and interesting. I'm pretty sure no one had a clue about my teeth-gnashing before they arrived. What is it they say about hostesses being like ducks -- being serene on the surface while paddling like hell underneath? I listened and laughed and nodded and suppressed the urge to quack.

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