ve you ever had a crush on an object that was so all-consuming, you simply had to tell the world about it? I’m not talking about the fickle seasonal crushes we develop on the latest shoes and bags. The crush to which I refer is far more soul-stirring. It is the answer to every townie tension, the essence of what we have lost in our frazzled, Botoxed, SMS-obsessed, time-starved world. It is the Aga.

Just lifting one of the giant lids on the stove of an Aga is enough to dissolve the pressures of a day at the office. Not that you should lift them. Except for the kettle and the odd pot of pasta or veg, true Aga devotees use only the ovens to bake – everything. Personally, I can’t resist the tennis racket-style toasters, placed under the lids forthe perfect slice. When using one, there’s no place for distraction– you have to concentrate. And perhaps this is why I love them so much: by focusing on the Aga, I can stop thinking about everything else. And I’m not alone. Jasmine Guinness is a fan, as are Alex James, Jodie Kidd, Sharon Stone – even Robert Carlyle. Not to mention the foodie contingent: Jamie Oliver, Nigel Slater and Sophie Conran.

My big sister, Jemima, who moved to Bath recently, joined their ranks by installing a brand-new off-white Aga in her family kitchen. She spent four years living in Rome, and for her, the Aga was a fast-track back to what it means to be a British mum. Just standing in front of one is the equivalent to reading 10 Jilly Coopers in one hit, she says.

It just so happens that Jemima lives on the same street as the Aga shop, and thought she should check out one of the instore cookery demonstrations. Initially, I teased her for going the way of the home counties. But she insisted I came along, and reader, I confess it was a life-changing moment. For starters, you get to spend time in the company of a cosy lady called Sarah Whitaker, who runs demos at Aga shops up and down the country (this month, she is being flown to America to show the residents of Cape Cod how to cook roast beef and yorkshire pud). A few moments in her care, and all the strains of the real world melt away.

Take her tips on chocolate, for example: “If you have teenagers or labradors, always melt your chocolate at the back of the Aga,” she advises. “If, however, you have terriers and small children, you can get away with leaving your chocolate to melt quietly at the front.” The idea of having both teens and labradors, and the thought that she assumes that I might, is such a comfort. Especially as I have neither.

Whitaker refers to those who own Agas as belonging to a country called Agaland. In that place, people don’t necessarily make pastry from scratch when they can unroll a sheet of Jus-Rol. But if she does make her own, she puts things in it, such as poppy seeds, parmesan or herbs. “Then it is clearly homemade and not from a packet,” she says.

“The Aga revives orphaned lambs and kittens. Dogs and cats sleep beside it,” she continues. “It dries out wet rugby boots, warms wellies in the deep winter, enables you to forsake the ironing when you leave your laundry on the top. It is the heart of every home.” Oh, yes.

Relaxed Aga Cooking, Whitaker’s new recipe collection, is now by my bedside. When a 4am anxiety attack strikes, reading her tips on how to cook the perfect creamy risotto proves the perfect stress-buster. Agas tap into the current trend for all things homemade: the harking back to yesteryear of the Women’s Institute, of making clothes for your children as opposed to splurging on Baby Gap. They are there for taking stock, making stock and generally getting a bit stocky – and not caring a hoot.

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