Love’s Apple Lost

Not every food we eat gets “improved.” The quince, available in the market for a few brief weeks in October, draws a line directly back to the moment Paris offered the golden apple of the Hesperides to Aphrodite, sealing Troy’s fate; this golden apple was, in all likelihood, a quince.

It’s a golden or greenish-golden fruit, pear-shaped or round, covered in soft, grey down and, when cut, fragrant of its first cousins, the apple and pear, but with an added perfume of pineapple or something else tropical. Unfortunately, it’s also a fruit impossible to eat raw, at least the varieties available here. It’s hard, bitter, and mouth-puckeringly astringent. Cooked, however, and it is delicious.

Love, fertility, marriage, these were its realm. The quince appears, translated as apple, in the Song of Solomon. Ancient Athenians tossed quinces into passing bridal chariots, much as we shower the just-married with handfuls of rice. It thrived for thousands of years, through Rome, the Middle Ages, Renaissance England, across to America. It was an offering, in the form of the French paste, cotignac, to Joan of Arc as she lifted the siege of Orleans; a requested import by members of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Then somehow we lost our taste for it. So many other fruits have surpassed the quince, especially its close cousin, the apple, progressively cultivated to be sweeter and sweeter. The major commercial use of quince today is as rootstock for pears; it helps keep the pear tree at a pickable height.

But quince does make marvelous jam—the word marmalade comes from marmelo, the Portuguese word for quince—and a delicious paste
(membrillo in Spanish, cotignac in French, cotognatain Italian). Try it with a sharp sheep’s cheese. And quince slices, cooked in syrup until they turn a pretty pink, marry beautifully with apples in an apple pie. In Persian and Turkish and other cuisines, quince is paired with meats like mutton, the fruity sourness a foil for the fat. But no need to get so exotic to enjoy the quince. Instead, pick up a half dozen and delight yourself with making an almost foolproof jam. Or enjoy quince as is, not to eat, but as decoration, piled in a bowl, their perfume subtly filling the room.

Quince Marmalade

Not only delicious in its own right, but the perfect place to start if you’ve never made jam. Scrub, peel, and quarter half a dozen quinces. Core the wedges, reserving the cores and wrapping them in cheesecloth. Then cut the quarters into three or four thin slices. In a medium size, heavy-bottomed pot, add six cups of sugar—or one cup per medium fruit used—and four cups of water, and heat slowly until the sugar dissolves. Add the quince slices and the cheesecloth with the cores, and simmer, stirring occasionally, for up to 45 minutes, or until the slices are tender and pink. (You can stop here and allow the fruit to cool in own syrup, and serve over ice cream or with thick Greek yogurt.)

To continue with the marmalade, remove excess syrup, leaving the fruit just covered in liquid, then cook over medium-high heat, stirring, for about 30 minutes, until the quince slices are very soft and most of the syrup has boiled away. Mash until the fruit is chunky, then check: if the fruit seems too thick, add a bit more syrup, if too thin, boil for a few more minutes. But know that the jam will thicken when cooled—and that it will be delicious either way and you’ll have made marmalade! Ladle into clean jars and store in the refrigerator.