Okra, okra, okra. For two months he's been wooing me like a new suitor who's suddenly popped up. "How about it? Why don't we make some okra?" Not that I have anything against okra. It's just that anything that turns into a campaign automatically rouses me into opposition.

"It's been such a long time since we made okra, you know?" He "casually" gave his obsession another go Friday morning, with the checkered shopping bag behind him, as if we'd never talked about it before that very moment. And amid the morning chaos, I said to him without much conviction, "So, okay, make okra" - the way you tell a kid who's bored to go read a book. There is no randomness in these matters as far as the chef's concerned. It's not that he wants to make okra for himself. He just needed confirmation that I'd agreed that he make it for me. He waited so long for this moment, and when it happened, he took off like lightning for the souk - all because I'd "asked" for it.

Two hours later he came back with a huge bag full of the vegetable and started taking pictures and waxing poetic about its splendid qualities. All right, so we'll have okra, but how many times does he have to show it to me? "Come see, come see. Look how pretty it is, how strong, how green."

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In the yard of the building a small crowd had gathered around the oleander next to the low stone wall at the entrance. Salah, the man who looks after our sensitive, fragile-looking building, saw me and said, "Snake."

"106, how can I help you?"

"Hello, emergency center?"

"Yes."

"We have a snake here, I think it's a viper," I said with the calm assurance of someone who knows for certain that his call is serious and will surely be answered right away. I thought they would even thank me for my bravery, for being one of those who found a dangerous snake in our city.

"Where is it?" the woman on the other end of the hot line asked in a bored tone of voice.

"In the yard of the building," I replied heroically.

"I'll give you the number of a snake catcher," the clerk said curtly.

"What do you mean?"

"A snake is not the municipality's responsibility. If it's in the yard of your building, it's yours."

Keeping up a brave face, I called the snake catcher.

"Hello ... Menashe?"

"Yes."

"You're a snake catcher?"

"Yes, NIS 450 plus VAT, even if I don't catch him, plus a two-week warranty."

"Warranty for what?"

"If the snake comes back, I come back."

"So come," I said. I exchanged glances with the neighbors who were gathered around the oleander, as we silently voted to hire Menashe the snake catcher and to split the cost of dealing with what apparently was "our" snake.

The little crowd dispersed, with everyone warily eyeing each other and privately wondering: Where the hell did the snake come from?

I hurried back upstairs, erasing any concern from my face, as if all was fine and dandy. I walked into the aroma of simmering tomatoes, and the sound of the chef whistling. What he doesn't know won't hurt him.

"What were you doing downstairs?"

"Oh, it was just something with the mailman," I ad-libbed clumsily.

A minute later, there was a knock on the door. And I opened it to find Salah, with a big grin on his face, who informed me: "I canceled the guy. There's no snake. There was a snake, but now there's just a snake skin."

The chef came running. "Where is there a snake?!"

The chef returned to the kitchen greatly dispirited, since there's nothing worse for someone with his particular phobia than knowing that the snake has slithered off somewhere else nearby, and will choose the time and place to make its next appearance. And so he made up his mind that it was time to make some maluhiya, too, even if only for meditative purposes.

That evening we sat down and ate everything in a silence that was broken only by the middle child's penetrating question: "Can snakes climb up buildings?"

"Absolutely not," the chef answered her, a shudder rippling his curls. "You want some more okra?" he added, which in chef-speak, means: Do you swear not to ever mention the snake skin again?

"Yes, thanks."

Three types of okra can currently be found in the markets:

Baladi: Elongated and narrow, with a pale green color and prominent ribs. Lean and ascetic, its flesh is dry and fibrous, and not juicy.

Thai: About 7-12 cm. long, with a bright green color and juicy flesh. It softens quickly when cooked. Something about its mighty dimensions says: Eat me with a knife and fork, like a steak.

The local variety: Short and plump, with a light coating of fuzz that hints at the marshmallow-like consistency it will develop when cooked. This is the best one to buy, especially the medium-size ones.

If you can't deal with an okra's viscous insides, it's best to just forget about it. The same goes for similar texture of the maluhiya. It's one of those things you either like or you don't.

Each okra is meant to be a whole world unto itself, and its particular consistency is what gives the sauce in which it cooks just what it needs to thicken in the right way. Okra does not do well if dried first in the sun or fried. It has a light green tip that will still remain woody even after long cooking. Thus you must trim it off right below the line where it connects with the flesh of the vegetable. Accurate slicing here will keep the seeds from being exposed to the sauce. When these are exposed, they produce much of the viscosity that some people find off-putting.

The word "gumbo" comes from kingumbo, the Angolan name for okra. African-born slaves in America brought the vegetable into the cotton fields where they toiled, and used it to make a stew, or gumbo, which in time became the symbol of the cuisine of New Orleans, culinary capital of the American South.

Gumbo is a hot summer dish that may contain chicken or shrimp or pieces of meat and vegetables. Two things must come together in this dish for it to remind us of the endless cotton fields and the sounds of blues and jazz being played on street corners, even if we've never actually seen or heard these things: okra and rice. The principle is simple: There is a heavy pot in which you put vegetable or chicken stock, meat or seafood and okra, which simmer together at a moderate boil for 45-90 minutes, and when all has thickened, it is poured over white rice.

For six servings.

3 tbsp. olive oil

3 garlic cloves, peeled and sliced into thin rings

1 hot green pepper, sliced into rings

3 ripe plum (Tamar) tomatoes, peeled and diced

200 gr. tomato paste, organic if possible

sea salt

20 black peppercorns, ground

1 liter mineral water

1/2 kilo okra

1/2 kilo medium-size shrimps, peeled and cleaned

Meanwhile, trim the okra as described above, and add it to the pot when the sauce comes to a boil. Let simmer over a medium flame and keep at a moderate boil until the okra softens and has the consistency of a marshmallow.

Add the peeled shrimps. Stir in and cook at a boil for 2 minutes.

Now the shrimp gumbo is ready. Serve over a bed of hot white rice.

For six servings.

3 tbsp. olive oil

3 garlic cloves, peeled and sliced into rings

1 hot green pepper, sliced into rings

3 ripe plum (Tamar) tomatoes, peeled and diced

200 gr. tomato paste, organic if possible

sea salt

20 black peppercorns, ground

1 liter chicken stock or water

1/2 kilo okra

6 fresh chicken legs or thighs

Clean the okra as in the previous recipe. Pour the oil into a heavy, 28-cm. pot, add the hot pepper and heat over a medium flame until the pepper is bright green. Add the garlic and continue sauteeing while stirring with a wooden spoon until the garlic is translucent but not burned.

Add the tomatoes and the salt, turn up the heat and saute while stirring until a thick but not dry sauce is formed. Add the tomato paste, stir well, still over a high heat. When you sense that sauce is starting to dry out, add the stock or water and the black pepper.

Add the chicken pieces and turn the flame down to medium-low and simmer, covered, for about 1 hour. Meanwhile, trim the okra. When the hour is up, add the okra and simmer for another 30 minutes. Stir occasionally. When the stew has thickened and the okra has softened, turn off the heat. Serve over a bed of hot white rice.

Maluhiya is an okra's perfect partner. Buy a bunch at the souk - one with fresh, shiny leaves. The price is usually NIS 10. Detach the leaves from the stalks and soak them in a bowl of cold tap water. Replace the water three times and then drain.

Place the serving dish in the center of the table with the family sitting all around. And enjoy a scorching summer evening.