OTHER than her son, the thing my ex-mother-in-law and I bonded over the most was our love of artichokes.

Come spring, Camille bought them by the dozen on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx. If they were on sale, she’d buy them by the crate.

It was she who showed me how to peel the stems and cook them along with the flower (“They taste just as good as the heart!” she’d gush), and how to steam them in a pressure cooker. (“They only take 20 minutes!”)

Of all her recipes, my favorite was her garlicky Italian-style stuffed artichokes, filled with bread crumbs and herbs. She’d make these for Sunday family suppers, which started at 2 p.m. and lingered well into the evening.