It was our last time with the blue door. We took all the girls to say good-bye to it, to the hills that can be seen from it and to the wood-burning stove with the glass door and the wide chimney, at the center of the little tent-like shack in the desert. The trip was long, sad and even amusing this time.

We left our house in Tel Aviv, as did our forefathers, on short notice due to imminent riots by Cossacks. "They left the kettle on the stove," was the expression that was commonly used to describe people who left their home that way, in a rush. But we decided that nothing was more important now than leaving on time and arriving during daylight.

As we know, getting a family out of the house, and with several packages to boot, is a much more difficult mission than launching a spaceship. Because there, at the launching center, is someone who counts: "10, 9, 8 ... blastoff!" In our house there's nobody to do the countdown. And everyone carries on with his or her business like overly diligent or fanatic ants. The chef, for example, was just glazing pomelo peels ("I'm almost finished"), and I walked from room to room, unable to understand the quiet. Where were all the complaints everyone voices every time we don't leave on time? How is it that everyone suddenly had a complex and profound inner world, in which he or she could remain indefinitely, as if in a womb? And in general, it seemed rude on my part to try to disturb the peace of all those well-balanced individuals who live with me, aged 3 to 48, and who ask for nothing except to be left to their own devices.

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Slowly but surely, after I had been thrown out in disgust from all the rooms, I sensed a kind of strange atmosphere that indicated that everyone in the house was fine, except for me, who had this phobia about leaving that made me keep saying, in a very annoying way: "Nu, come on! It's getting awfully late."

Everyone was finally sitting in the car, buckled up - a process that demanded preliminary discussions, negotiations and role-playing, since the three-year-old is not willing to sit in a child's seat because she claims that she's not a little girl and can't force herself to be one just because of some policeman. Until the 12-year-old sat in the infant seat and we all pretended to shout at her to get out of it because it isn't hers, the little one refused to be buckled in.

We finally left via Jaffa, to buy meat, and when all the bags were already arranged in back everyone became hungry simultaneously and we decided that we had to eat something. Because I was behind the steering wheel, I immediately drove to Shippudei Tzippora, with the thought that it would be great if they tossed some hot laffa pitas, hummus and a skewer or two at us with the Cola. We had already parked and gotten everyone excited about lunch at Tzippora's, but then found that the door was locked. From the rear entrance a team of cleaners sprayed us a little with the hose aimed at the sidewalk. "Closed today," was all they said. We returned to the car starving and left the city; secretly I was sorry that I hadn't prepared schnitzels to go for everyone.

The chef and I looked at one another for a second, and together we said, "Yalla, we'll stop at Nir Banim." Nobody had fallen asleep yet with a head lolling tiredly on the back seat when we stopped at the village store run by the organic farmers in the middle of the fields, the one that always takes care of our last-minute purchases. Next to it is a small eatery, which used to be owned by two women; now one man was standing there selling fish cakes, chicken steak and other take-away food.

"What's good?" asked the hungry chef with urban chutzpah, an opening sentence that causes me to cough a little in embarrassment.

"Everything's good," replied the man unflustered.

"If everything is good that's like saying that nothing is good, you're belittling your food," the chef told him, and I was sure that in a minute we would have blows here between the center and the periphery. But then there was a turning point in the plot, the man took a half step back, looked at the chef and asked him in a friendly manner, "Tell me, aren't you Avi's brother?" The chef, shocked at the possibility, replied: "No."

The man began to laugh and said, "I thought you were Avi's brother, and that you were making fun of me."

At that point we also began to laugh. During the entire meal, in which we ate three plates of fish cakes and rice, he stood over us and said, "I envy you. I never have time to sit like that with the children."

The chef asked, "Why, how long have you been in this business?"

"Two months," the man replied.

"And where were you before that?" asked the chef, who always takes a genuine interest in the person talking to him.

"At home, you know, combinot [shady deals], they're the best thing."

"Ah," said the chef, who has never even uttered the word "combinot." "I know exactly what you mean."

When we arrived at our house in the desert the laughter stopped all at once, for at that moment we all understood that we would no longer sit together near the fireplace, at least not this one. The chef told me in sorrow that he felt great intimacy with the stove, which we opened so often to put in fire and food and wood. We arranged ourselves around it, and roasted some vegetables.

"Say good-bye to the house," I said to the little one. "Now we'll find another house in Mitzpeh, okay?"

"Another one in Mitzpeh?" she looked at me uncomprehendingly, because until now she was certain that Mitzpeh is this little house with the stove, and when we come off of Route 40, she announces: "It's not Mitzpeh yet." Only when we park next to this house does she say, "Now we're in Mitzpeh."

For the way home we took some organic pomelos with us from Neot Smadar, brought to us by neighbors who had come to say good-bye. When we removed the thick yellow rinds, an intoxicating spray from the fruit wafted over me, and nobody was sure where the roll of toilet paper was, and why we all had tears in our eyes.

Glazing fruits, vegetables and root vegetables is related to roasting, but instead of banishing the water and the air by means of external heat, and then shrinking the remaining empty spaces, in glazing you get rid of the water and the air with a boiling-hot syrup that pushes them out and replaces them in an instant, making them transparent and juicy.

Pomelo peels are the thickest and airiest of all the citrus peels, except for that of the etrog (citron). Yellowish-green, they carry within the essence of the taste of the pomelo, like a sponge full of air. But as in the case of olives, in pomelo peels, too, the liquid in their fleshy texture also has unbearably bitter flavors. That's why just as we soak olives in water before pickling, we soak pomelos in water before glazing.

2 pomelos with thick peels

Cut the peel of each pomelo into 6 long pieces. Wrap the fruit itself in cellophane. It will last in the refrigerator for three weeks without changing its taste or texture.

Place the peels in a large bowl, fill with cool water and soak for about an hour. Pour out the water, refill, soak for about another hour; pour off the water.

Put the peels in a large pot filled with water, bring to a boil, extinguish the flame and leave the peels in the pot for about half an hour.

Repeat the procedure three more times. Drain off the water.

1 kg. sugar

juice of 2 fresh lemons

2 liters mineral water

You'll need a heavy steel pot, 24-26 cm. in diameter. Bring the water and sugar to a boil in it, over a medium flame. The sugar dissolves in the water and turns into a thin syrup. Place the pomelo peels inside, squeeze the lemons over them, bring to a boil again and maintain a moderate boil, glazing for 90 minutes. During the cooking adjust the flame so that the pot doesn't boil over, and make sure that the peels are immersed in the syrup the entire time.

After 90 minutes a substantial amount of the water in the syrup has evaporated, the bubbles from the boiling increase in size, the peels become transparent and the syrup may no longer cover them entirely. Keep the peels covered using a spoon, and continue to cook for another 30 minutes. The glazing is complete.

2. Strain off the syrup and set aside; put the peels on a rack that can be placed on a baking pan. Put aside to dry for about 24 hours, and then with a baking brush "paint" the peels with the syrup. Repeat the process for four days, once a day, and then leave the peels to dry for another four days at room temperature.

What's the best way to eat this delicacy? Straight from the jar and on a flat saucer: Take a section of glazed pomelo dipped in syrup, along with a teaspoonful of raw tahini, and eat with chopsticks or fingers.

In Italy piccata is a very thin slice of milk-fed veal, which is dusted with flour and tossed into browned and very hot butter. Dusting with a bit of flour lends this dish a smooth texture, and serves as a basis for thickening the butter with the wine. The golden brown butter lets the slice of meat, which remains in it for only a few seconds, brown as though it had spent a long time there. The golden brown butter has a nutlike taste. The taste of nuts and the smooth texture of the thin slices are the main characteristics of piccata. The following recipe, calling for chicken breast, is for 2 portions.

1 chicken breast, cut open and into a very thin piece, halved lengthwise

2 thin stalks of rosemary or sage

2 small, red, spicy shata peppers

sea salt

3 black peppercorns, broken coarsely

white flower for dusting

Stick the two ends of a stalk of rosemary or sage into each of the slices of chicken, lengthwise (see photo). Place the shata pepper in the space between the stalk and the meat. Salt, press the pieces of peppercorn into the meat, then place each slice on a small mound of flour, flip over and shake off the excess.

30 gm. of cold butter, cut into cubes

Heat a heavy, 24-cm. skillet, add the cubes of butter and with a wooden spoon spread the melting pieces over the entire surface of the sizzling-hot pan until they melt and turn golden brown. Place the meat in the skillet, rosemary side down. A wonderful smell of rosemary and butter will fill the air. Turn over after 30 seconds.

about 1/2 cup of dry white wine

Ten seconds after turning over the piccatas, pour the wine into the skillet all at once. A thick white smoke billows up, and the wine bubbles in the butter. Shake the skillet gently, back and forth. The shaking helps the butter to mix with the wine. After 20 seconds the small bubbles from the boiling gradually increase in size, the gravy thickens and the emulsion of the wine and butter is just the right consistency. Remove the piccatas to plates that have been heated and pour the sizzling gravy from the skillet next to them. Serve immediately.