The weekend passed without fanfare. I didn’t have much time to cook and even if I had been granted an extra 12 hours tagged onto Saturday for good behaviour, Tim insisted that we watch all three Six Nations Rugby matches.
As I choked back boredom, I did, however, manage to make a jar of Quince Brandy. It wasn’t much of a stretch of the skills to prepare: cut the quince into eighths without peeling or coring, poke into a sterilised jar alongside a stick of cinnamon and some star anise and bathe generously in brandy (i.e. fill to the top). It does look lovely, I must admit, but waiting 6 months before consumption will be a test of my patience.
Quinces are a magical fruit, rare enough that I had never seen one in the flesh until a few weeks ago but their popularity is on the increase. If you have a Quince tree in your garden, consider yourself blessed. These golden skinned fruits, regarded by the Romans as a symbol of love and happiness, are extremely versatile. They cannot be eaten raw but once cooked they add a lovely scented charm to a stew, make a delicious tangy jam and are an unusual filling for fruit pies. In some supermarkets you can currently buy quince, but they are much larger than the English ones: they are generally imported from the Middle East where quince is a much-revered fruit. I have two spare ones at home (at £1.49 each, I only buy one a week whilst they are in season, they ripen quite slowly and fragrantly in a warm living room, I’m drying the seeds from the inebriated quince in the hope that I can germinate at least one tree from them!), one of which I intend to use in a savoury stew. It makes an interesting change from the use of prunes and fortunately just one quince goes a long way.
I believe it’s about time that these ancient fruits have a resurgence in popularity. I remember chatting to my Grandmother, and she recalled seeing quince growing along the roadside. During the war, they would pick quince and mulberrys and meddlars to take home for their mothers to put into pies or make into preserves. My grandmother said they called it ‘rubbish food’ because it was free and in those rationed times, roadside fruit was a poor substitute for a bar of nestle chocolate. Nowadays these rarefied fruits have been cut back by farmers, killed off by weed killers and removed from all sight. I wonder how long it will be before blackberries, elderberries and rosehips go the same way.
I have cooked with my beloved quince more times than I care to think about, and I find that the flavour, a subtle and alluring combination of pear, apple and a hint of magic, is so utterly beguiling, whether you use it in a cake or a stew.