If there is anything more transformative in the food world than the quince, I don’t know what it is. They are impossible to eat raw, but some heat and a little acid turns the frumpy, bumpy, fuzzy ugly duckling into a ruby-tinted swan.
Quinces are an old fruit, native to Turkey and Iran and a member of the rose family. They were a gift signalling commitment from your ancient Roman suitor. The Portuguese word for quince jam gives us “marmalade”; the French make wine and the Balkans extract brandy and liqueur from their flesh.
Whatever you do, don’t be put off by the work required to enjoy quinces for the months of autumn and winter. Yes, they are hard to peel and core and chop, but my across-the-tar-road-neighbour taught me to address the drudgery of this retro fruit by using a most modern appliance: blast it in the microwave for a few minutes.
Quinces have a high pectin content and make beautiful jams and jellies. They are delicious poached in a spicy red wine; pickled; or baked into cakes; and they go nicely in savoury dishes like a lamb, quince and ginger bredie, or a lusty caramelised chicken and quince tagine.
Adding quince to a pie or crumble made with its cousins, the apple and pear, imparts a perfumed whisper. Serve with whipped cream into which you’ve folded some honey and chopped toasted walnuts.
But I think the best way to eat quince is to make it into a paste. This will demand patience. You can’t hurry love, or quince.
Known as membrillo in Spain and Mexico, quince paste is the most troublesome of all the quince projects, but it is so versatile and so long-lasting you mustn’t baulk at the chore. Its best companion is a mature hard cheese, but mixing little jewels of it into mascarpone with some crumbled blue cheese adds up to something high on the addiction scale. (And if you really can’t face making your own, buy the excellent locally made version created by Dulce Del Cabo.)
Australian chef Maggie Beer, who has an enormous quince orchard, cuts quince paste into small cubes and dusts it with cinnamon sugar to go with her coffee. She also makes a quince paste and roasted almond ice cream. Yotam Ottolenghi makes a quiche with roasted butternut, blue cheese and quince paste. And that dishy baker, Paul Hollywood, cubes the paste and rips off bits of brie to incorporate into bread dough, rolling it out and baking it as a flatbread.
Add it to grilled cheese sandwiches. Melt the paste with white wine for a glaze for ham or sausages, stir it into a pan sauce, or add to meat stews instead of redcurrant jelly.
To make quince paste, use a heavy-bottomed pot, or a slow cooker, which I prefer because you can stir it less often. Either way, be sure you haul out that dusty old suit of armour in the cupboard or wear long sleeves – bubbling and popping quince paste resembles nothing more than volcanic lava. There are plenty of recipes out there, and there might just be a unique family version in your grandmother’s recipe file too.
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