The artichoke is actually very human. Layers of leaves protect its soft and tasty heart, and one needs patience, caution and faith to pluck them out one by one to expose it. And as happens to everyone above a certain age, it begins to grow hair.

"It's unique," the chef said to me, taking an artichoke from a pile of artichokes that he had picked from the field of a farmer while the farmer was still asleep in bed, early Shabbat morning. "You're also unique," I reply. He ignores me and continues to describe how he looked for the farmer whose field he had invaded without permission, persisted and found him in order to pay him generously and to thank him personally for the thorny "flowers" the farmer had placed in his path. After all that he was very pleased: The plot of his own personal legend, "The Chef in the Field of Artichokes," had progressed to his satisfaction.

At the beginning of last winter we sat with a friend from Italy and her partner from London in a restaurant. The beauteous Manuela was depressed by her perpetually blonde hair, was tired of her professional trips all over the world, missed her home, San Remo, her mother, her sister and noisy lunches with lots of children and pasta and antipasti. She draped her good woolen coat over the chair, drank champagne and sighed. But then the waitress arrived at the table with a plate of artichokes "for openers," as restaurant critics say. Manuela's eyes filled with tears and she said in her warm voice, that always sounds to me like the beginning of a song from the San Remo festival, "Ho Madonna, carciofi." And suddenly, as though pricked by a magic thorn, Manuela was restored to an Italian state of mind, tipsy and heartwarming, which becomes her so well.

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This winter we can already speak officially about the "oven fever" that I suffered from. This seasonal flu has been going on for two months already, during which time I managed to infect several members of the family. Its main symptoms are a high temperature in the oven, 24 hours a day, a gas bill befitting someone who has emptied the canisters of the entire building for a year, and a slight weight gain that is typical of overeating baked goods, breads and cakes, pastries, quiches, lasagnas and salads made of eggplants scorched in our wonderful oven - which, if it were a person, would definitely be considered a guru.

We may be divided into two camps, in the kitchen and the living room, but we are united in our love for the oven. I can't stop cooking for even a moment, without any logical connection to who is at home, who is hungry and what we've already eaten. So that there is simply food without interruption. In the context of my oven fever, the results are of little importance, and the motto is that I have to keep on cooking. That means that if the oven is working on "full gas in neutral" - i.e., it's empty - it's like losing your best piece on the game board. I put in it pots of water that have to be heated, sweet potatoes that are getting bored in the vegetable basket, small baking pans in the shape of a teddy bear with cakes that overflow and get burned, but who cares: The oven is on anyway.

The chef says of my cakes, which are based on half recipes that have remained in my head from home economics in junior high school: "That's probably how the brilliant chimpanzees in the jungle prepare cakes." But there's no arguing about their smell, and all the inhabitants of the jungle, including the chef himself, come to the kitchen, grab a piece of cake and continue on their way.

Occasionally the sounds of explosions are heard, and I run to the oven in order to find an eggplant that has burst through its skin, unable to withstand its own pressure any longer, and has loudly splattered into the inner world of the oven. In the house there is a chronic smell of orange cake and scorched eggplant. That's good for the winter when, on the backdrop of the rain, "Hakeves hashisha asar" ("The 16th Sheep") - the most wonderful recording of all time - can be heard, singing about the kindergarten that is closed, about thunder and lightning, about the smell of chocolate and about "when you say artichoke your whole face wrinkles up." And when the chef brought the offering of artichokes from the field, I immediately threw a few into the oven after a mild rinsing. Why not? Let them get a little bit burned.

In the evening the eldest went through my discs and found "Kemo tzemah bar" ("Like a Wild Flower"), the legendary collection by Chava Alberstein. The sink that's purple from artichokes, the black hands of the chef who peeled and fried and cut, the knowledge that he has a birthday in a few days, along with the fact that his entire life is dedicated to thorns, fish, weeds and tomatoes - all of this came together in my head like the soundtrack of a film based on the first song on the Alberstein disc, "Adaber itkha" ("I'll Speak to You") by Rachel Shapira, and especially the chorus, which takes on a profound significance when one lives with the chef: "I have strength, I have strength, don't have pity on me, don't keep your thorns from scratching my legs."

This cooking technique exploits the ability of olive oil to cause hard and fibrous textures to become soft, almost to melt.

The process of cooking takes place when a solid substance is partially or entirely submerged in a liquid that is exposed to a source of heat. No matter what the temperature of the heat source, the water that is exposed to it will never exceed the boiling point, which ranges from 96 to 100 degrees Centigrade depending on the barometric pressure. Beyond this point the water will "break" and gradually turn into steam. And anything cooked in such water will also break and crack. And cracks generate a process that is the opposite of becoming softer.

Cooking in oil quickly turns into deep frying; frying takes place at temperatures ranging from 140 to 180 degrees Centigrade, the boiling point of oil. Oil, like water, accumulates heat, and the hotter the source of the heat, the faster the oil will soak up the heat that will bring it to the boiling point beyond which it will burn. And while the "price" of cooking in extremely hot water is cracks, the price of cooking in burned oil is scorching.

So how does one cook with prolonged boiling without cracking or burning the food? In oil and water. The water turns the oil into a delicate base for cooking; lowering the heat helps it maintain a stable temperature over the long term.

The formula is two parts oil to one part water. Both in the same pot. Season as you wish, and add whatever you want to cook - cauliflower, fennel bulbs, chunks of meat, artichokes, whatever. After a minimum of 30 minutes, its consistency will become soft.

The heavier water sinks to the bottom of the pot, the oil hovers above it, the flame is ignited. The temperature in the depths of the pot rises quickly. The water, which is trying to evaporate when it reaches 100 degrees, seeks to penetrate the layer of oil. But the oil does not allow it to bubble and break. The food that is partially immersed in the water experiences the boiling, but in "unbroken" water.

And what about the oil? Its source of heat is now the water; while the pot is suffused with the heat that has long since reached the temperature of boiling oil, the water has remained at about 100 degrees. It reacts by generating waves into the oil, trying to break through it, to get out into the air and to break. The oil covers it confidently, until the moment when a strong, high wave is suddenly formed, the layer of oil is breached and it attempts quickly to cover the water, but it's too late. A hole is formed inside it, through which steam emerges from the water, a "chimney" of water stabilizes in the oil and it now evaporates without breaking. The waves stop, the surface of the oil calms down, its inner temperature slowly climbs to 70 degrees. This is called slow cooking, a technique that gives almost any substance the texture of pate.

After an hour or so has passed, all the water has escaped through the chimney, and the oil is now at the bottom of the pot, seasoned with all the flavors left in it by the water. Its temperature is now 120 degrees. Turn off the flame, leave whatever was in the pot to cool a little. Welcome to an entire world of softness.

This recipe yields first courses for six diners.

6 medium-sized artichokes, preferably with leaves closed and long stems

4 garlic cloves

1 shata pepper

6 black peppercorns

Atlantic sea salt

water

olive oil

Cut the artichokes' stems so that about 4 cm remain. Remove the woody outer layer. With a sharp knife trim about 3 cm from the top of the artichoke's flower. Break the hard and fibrous outer envelope of leaves and remove them.

Place the artichokes in a heavy steel pot, stems face down. Fill the pot with a mixture of 2 parts olive oil to one part water, to 2/3 the height of the artichoke flowers. Add the peppercorns and salt. Bring to a boil, lower to minimal boiling, cover. Cook for about 30 minutes.

Fried artichoke, which originated in the Jewish ghetto in Rome, is today identified more than any other artichoke dish with Roman cuisine. The artichokes must be very young, the kind that have not yet become hairy. This recipe makes enough for six first courses.

12 small artichokes, with closed leaves

olive oil

Cut off the entire artichoke stem. Break off and remove the outer layer of leaves. With a sharp knife remove about one-third of the flower head. With your fingers, spread out the leaves that remain attached to the heart.

Use a heavy skillet that can hold all the artichokes crowded into one layer, and pour olive oil in, to a height of about 1.5-2 cm. Bring the oil to a low boil and place the artichokes, cut tops facing down, in the skillet; small bubbles should greet the entry of each artichoke in the oil.

With the oil boiling gently, fry for 12 minutes. Now turn up the flame to a medium boil, and flip over the artichokes so that the stems face down. Continue to fry for about 10 more minutes until the artichokes become browned on all sides.

Remove from the oil with a large slotted spoon, taking care not to damage the crispy leaves. Place on absorbent paper, shake some salt on immediately and eat hot with or without aioli.

2 fresh organic eggs at room temperature

2 tbsp red wine vinegar

2 cups corn oil (you may need less to achieve a mayonnaise consistency)

3 tbsp olive oil

3 crushed garlic cloves

1 finely chopped shata pepper

about 20 young basil flowers or 12 basil leaves, sliced into thin strips

4 young scallions, green and white parts, sliced into thin rings

1 container sour cream

sea salt

Beat the eggs, the vinegar and the salt at high speed with a mixer and when there is a homogeneous mixture, drip in a bit of corn oil in, in a thin stream. When the mixture begins to thicken, drip the oil in more quickly. You will get a mayonnaise that whitens and hardens as more oil is added. When it becomes solid and firm, add the olive oil; continue to beat until all the oil is absorbed. Add the sour cream, the scallions, the garlic and the basil leaves, and continue to beat for a few more seconds.