Long ago I gave up a life of extremes in black and white in favor of a complex life, although not necessarily a gray one. But I still have to face quite a few sets of eyes that meet me in the street and tell me simply: You are so lucky. You have a life full of wonderful food. But the moment your mother becomes a seamstress you want to walk down the street naked, the moment your father becomes a musician you refuse to touch a guitar or a piano, and from the moment your husband becomes an architect, you seem to want only to flee to a cave and never hear another word about design.

In the same way, due to a surfeit of rich food I dream only about a hard-boiled egg with salt, plain bread with butter and a coarsely chopped salad.

"Do me a favor," I said to the chef on Thursday morning before he started stocking up for the weekend. "I'm sick of shrimp in butter, chicken stuffed with rolls and meatballs in Parmesan. Enough."

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The look he gave me was gloomy and concerned. "What happened?"

"Nothing. I'm just sick of special food, and I what I really need is a break from eating animals."

"So you want us to make fish?" he asked gently, abandoning reality for a moment, observing the darkening sky and thinking about the wind and the waves rising in the sea. "Fish are animals, too," I sadly pointed out to him. "A vegetable, something green, that doesn't sleep at night, has no legs and doesn't swim."

He was silent. And I recalled that he has great affection for vegetables and greens and immediately regretted attacking him like that. "You understand, the smell of earth, that foreplay game of the winter and the sun - it makes me feel like repenting, like eating clean and nutritious food, and putting something rather than someone into my mouth."

He started to collect small change from the bowls scattered around the house. Small change is a clear indication of a trip to the market. "So what do you want me to make, a quiche or casserole? You know I hate warmed-up eggs."

As someone who grew up on quiches and casseroles, I can't stand his racist attitude toward them. "All right, I'm going out," said the chef, abruptly ending the discussion, because he felt that the front was heating up for no good reason. He got on his bike and disappeared down Balfour Street to the Carmel Market.

I rejoiced at the sight of the asparagus, but I didn't understand what he was planning to do with that strange vegetable that is known to help babies with stomachaches and grows the seeds of anise inside it, from which they make black candies that some people, but not me, love.

In the evening we were expecting guests, nothing too formal but we did have to give them something to eat. When he placed the fennel in a bowl only its long fingers peered out, until I thought that a vegetable can also be a living creature. He cut the fingers with the precision and care of a surgeon, and then cooked them in water.

When the guests arrived I lit candles all over the house, whose wounded walls are flattered by this lighting. He served fennel steamed and fried with lemon and Parmesan, and when I put it into my mouth I thought that until that moment I hadn't known anything about fennel - except that it's used for tea for month-old babies. And also that I should quickly read Ruth Ozeki's book "All Over Creation." After brilliantly destroying the American meat industry in "My Year of Meats," she went on to attack vegetables and fruits. The conclusion is that food is liable to be extremely dangerous, and also that one can write a book about any subject in the world.

When the asparagus came off the red-hot grill and received its portion of salt and olive oil, I no longer cared if in the end, black anise snakes appeared. Privately I decided that the eyes that meet me in the street and simply say "You're so lucky" - are right after all. Let real winter arrive already and stop sending regards in the guise of rain that is too light and too short, so we'll be able to sleep with it at night and wake up with it in the morning, fresh and full of faith in all of creation. Because that is what the seasons can offer us.

The bulb-shaped fennel has a delicate, anise-like flavor. It appears in the market from early autumn through the end of winter. Wild fennel grows in the Judean hills and the coastal plain. You can place dried leaves from it over simmering coals when grilling fish. The delicate anise scent that is emitted will be absorbed by the fish and their hint of the sea.

Some fennel bulbs are fat and round; others are flat and elongated. The rounder ones are wonderful to eat when still raw and coated in lemon juice or vinegar to keep them from discoloring. The longer type is best for cooking. They deepen the flavor of soups and meat dishes and lend a special dimension to the saltiness of sea salt. Fennel bulbs can also feature as the main attraction in a dish, their biggest asset being their soft, feta-like texture after about 45 minutes of cooking.

The following recipe makes four servings.

4 medium fennel bulbs (the flatter, elongated type)

1 egg, beaten

50 gr. high-quality Parmesan, finely grated

100 gr. butter

Atlantic sea salt

Remove the outer parts of the fennel. Trim the green "fingers" so that they are only about 2 cm. in length. Cook the fennel bulbs for 45 minutes in 2 liters of boiling and salted water. Drain and dry well.

Cut the bulbs in half. Dip each half in the beaten egg and lightly shake. Then dip in the grated Parmesan and set aside. Repeat with all the pieces.

In a heavy skillet, melt the butter and let it boil. Fry the fennel halves until golden on both sides. Transfer to a plate lined with paper towels and then to a serving dish. May be served with lemon slices, if desired.

The following recipe makes four servings.

4 medium fennel bulbs (the flat, elongated type), cleaned as in the previous recipe

750 ml. high-quality olive oil

1 cup fine Chardonnay or Sauvignon Blanc wine

cloves from 1 head garlic, peeled

3 red shata peppers, small and dried

1 bay leaf

sea salt

Parmesan, grated

tiny green leaves, preferably from the fennel bulbs themselves (the leaves look like dill)

Add the rest of the olive oil and bring to a boil. The oil is now covering the other liquids that are on the bottom of the skillet. A tiny "chimney" will open up in the oil layer; the liquids rise up like steam and contain the boiling. Simmer for 90 minutes. After 30 minutes, the liquids will all have escaped through the chimney. The fennel spends the next 60 minutes in the oil that has coated it protectively from the extremes of the heat.

Set aside to cool for 30 minutes. Drain off the oil and transfer to a dish lined with paper towels. Pick up each fennel bulb with two fingers and cut lengthwise with a sharp knife. The bulbs are very soft now. Their texture is creamy, but they still retain their shape.

Place two fennel halves on each plate, cut side up, and surround with the garlic cloves that have turned golden in the oil. Pour over the fennel 1 tsp. of the olive oil from the pan and grate a little Parmesan on top, without covering the whole thing. Scatter on top a little of the green leaves.

Now you have a first course to be savored slowly, which will serve as a delicate prelude to whatever is to follow.